Page 45 of The Quiet Tenant

The thought stays with you after he leaves. Scratching a man’s back, clinging to his flesh, carving yourself into him, is something you do only in a set of specific circumstances.

You don’t like it. You don’t like it at all.

You don’t like it for her, and you don’t like it for you.

There is a stranger outside. A stranger in danger.

And she could be the end of you, too.

Rule number three of staying alive outside the shed: If you have to be in his world, then you must be special. You must be the only one of you.

CHAPTER 30

The woman in the house

It’s the morning after the red scratches. Your eyelids are heavy, your head foggy. He, on the other hand, is quick on his feet. His gaze is proud. You could swear his skin is glowing. Maybe he’s already killed her, after all?

First comes breakfast. All three of you, quiet. Cecilia’s eyes flutter. She pokes at her cereal more than she eats it. He fingers his phone underneath the table. Soon, you’re back in the bedroom. He comes in, handcuffs you to the radiator, and leaves. Everything normal. Everything as usual.

The truck departs the driveway. There is a dull pain in your lower back. You adjust your stance to come as close to lying down as possible. That’s when you feel it.

The handcuffs. Like gum around your wrist. Useless. You sit up. Brush the metal with your left hand. The loop comes loose, unspools from your arm.

Just like that.

You are free.

Are you free?

There is something. Floating in the air around you, scratching at the back of your brain. It’s right here, but you can’t reach it. Your legs start shaking. You should unfurl them. Get up. On your feet, start running.

Is this the moment you start running?

You always thought when the moment came you’d know for sure.

Are you afraid?

Are you a coward?

Women like you are supposed to be brave. That’s what you used to hear. On the news, in magazine articles. Long profiles of girls who went missing and found their way home. Of women who workedunder the tutelage of horrible men and found their way out.She was so brave.Like a consolation prize:Sorry we couldn’t save you, but now we’ll pretend to worship the ground you walk on.

You visualize it.

In your head, you stand up. Is this what it feels like to be free? You walk to the bedroom door. It takes courage, but you’re a brave woman, remember? You are brave and don’t you forget it. In that vision, you open the door and peek outside. He’s not here. No one’s here. You know that. You know he and his daughter just left. You take a couple of steps down the stairs. Then, something clicks. You start running. You run to the living room, to the front door. You look around one last time and then you do it. You open the door.

And then what?

What happens after you open the door?

Picture it. You are outside. Alone. You don’t know where you are, the street, the town, the state. No idea. You don’t know where the closest neighbors live, or if they are home. They are strangers. It does not come easily to you—does not occur to you at all, anymore—to trust strangers. Trust them with your life. Trust them to save you.

Forget the neighbors, then. You could keep running, by yourself. To where? A town center? A police station? A grocery store? Those places are full of strangers, too, but at least they’re not someone’s home. There would be a crowd around you. Witnesses.

And where is he during all this?

Where is his kid?

The cameras.

---