Page 5 of The Quiet Tenant

“I found you,” he says. “You were lost. I gave you a roof. I keep you alive.” He points to the empty Tupperware. “Know what you’d be, without me? Nothing. You’d be dead.”

He gets up again. Cracks his knuckles, each finger a distinct pop.

You are not much. You know that. But in the shed, in this part of his life, you’re all he’s got.

“She’s dead,” he says. He tries it on for size and says again: “She’s dead.”

You have no idea who he’s talking about until he adds: “Her parents are selling the house.”

And then you get it.

His wife.

You try to think all the thoughts at once. You want to say what people say in polite society:I’m so sorry to hear.You want to ask,When?How?You wonder,Did he do it? Did he finally snap?

“So we have to move.”

He paces, as much as one can pace in the shed. Rattled, which is unlike him. But you have no time for his emotions. No time to waste figuring out whether he did it. Who cares if he did? He kills. You know that.

What you need to do is think. Search the atrophied folds of your brain, the ones that used to solve the problems of daily life. The part of you that helped your friends, your family. But the only thing your brain screams is that if he moves—if he leaves this house, this property—you die. Unless you can convince him to bring you along.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him.

You are so sorry, all the time. You are sorry his wife is dead. You are sorry, truly so, about the injustices of the world, the way they’ve befallen him. You are sorry he’s stuck with you, such a needy woman, always hungry and thirsty and cold, and so nosy at that.

Rule number two of staying alive in the shed: He’s always right, and you’re always sorry.

CHAPTER 4

Emily

He’s back. Tuesdays and Thursdays. As reliable as an eighty-six-proof whiskey, brimming with promises.

Aidan Thomas removes his gray trapper hat, his hair like ruffled feathers underneath. Tonight, he’s carrying a duffel bag—green nylon, like something out of an army surplus store. It hangs heavily at his side, the strap tugging at his shoulder.

The door slams behind him. I startle. He usually shuts it in one cautious gesture, one hand on the handle and the other on the frame.

He keeps his head down as he walks to the bar. There’s a heaviness to his step, and it’s not just the duffel’s fault.

Something is weighing on him.

He stuffs the hat in his pocket, smooths his hair, drops the duffel at his feet.

“Do you have my Manhattans?”

With a distracted glance, I slide two drinks in Cora’s direction. She skitters away. Aidan waits until she’s gone to gaze up at me.

“What can I get you?”

He gives me a tired smile.

I pick up the soda gun. “I have your usual.” An idea comes to me. “Or I could make you something, if you need a little pick-me-up.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

A cool shrug, as if none of this matters all that much. “It’s my job to notice.”

His eyes go vacant. In the background, Eric gesticulates. He’s describing the specials to a four-top. His customers drink him in, wide-eyed. Eric’s so good at it, the showmanship. He knows how to earn his tables’ affection, how to inflate his tips by two to five percent in a few sentences.

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