Page 71 of The Quiet Tenant

The man’s gaze lands on you. Finally. For a few moments, you think it has happened. The man has recognized you. This man will save you. Then, he shifts his focus to the driver’s seat, lifts his eyebrows in a silent question,And this is…?

Your brain tries to yell it. The answer, the correct one. Your brain tries to scream your name, but nothing comes out. Like a body weighed down. Nothing will budge.

From the left, a hand on your shoulder. “This is my cousin,” he says. “Came to visit over the holidays.”

What you know: On your first day inside the house, you saw a woman in the bathroom mirror. She looked nothing like you. White streaks in her hair, sunken cheeks. Five years older. No makeup. You used to wear so much makeup. Eyeliner, foundation, every shade of lipstick. And now look at you. How could anyone recognize you, unless they were your mother and father, searching for your face in every stranger on the street?

You can’t even say your fucking name. Not even in your fucking head.

The judge nods in appreciation. He turns to you. “And where are you visiting from?”

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. Are you supposed to lie? Name a random place? What if the judge has follow-up questions? Or could you tell the truth? Could you plant a seed, say the name of the town you were taken from?

Before you can decide, the man in the driver’s seat answers for you. “Raiford, Florida. Just north of Gainesville. Whole family’s from there originally.”

The judge cracks a joke, something about coming here for the weather, enough of that Florida sunshine?

You think: Raiford, Florida? How it rolled off his tongue. What have you heard about skilled liars? That they wrap every falsehood in a thin layer of truth?

This must be where he’s from, you decide. Raiford, Florida. You picture a boy baking in the heat, humidity curling his hair, shirt sticking to his shoulders. Mosquitoes and baby alligators and knotty oak trees. Inside his head, a storm brewing.

The judge taps your side of the car.

“Well, I won’t keep you.” He nods in your direction. “Very nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay. Apologies about the bitter cold. It’s a local specialty.”

A silence hangs in the air, until you remember how these conversations are supposed to go. You smile at the man. Articulate a thank-you. It sets fire to your tongue.

Don’t you recognize me? Can you really slip away from the world, like falling through the surface of a frozen lake, and no one even remembers to look for you?

The window on the passenger side slides back up. He waits for the judge to trot back to his own car, then merges back onto the road. With a final wave at his old friend, he begins the drive out of town.

You stay quiet as the scenery changes back to trees, brush, and power lines. You are grieving for a lost opportunity. For a man who could have saved you. For the person you used to look like, the one they have stopped searching for.

“Nice man, the judge.” His elbow rests against the driver’s-side window, left hand hanging in the air, the other on the wheel. “People around here are like that. Very nice. Very trusting.”

He glances at the clock on the dashboard. Inside your brain,pieces click into place: He wanted this. He wanted to run into the judge. He knew when and where to expect him. He made sure to get there on time.

He smiles at nothing in particular, takes a long, peaceful breath in. A man whose plan has just worked out perfectly.

He wanted you to see. This prison he has built for you—it’s not just about walls or roofs or cameras. It’s about the world he has created, and how you have faded from it.

CHAPTER 46

Emily

I won’t stay long. That’s what I tell myself. I’ll just take a peek.

I drive there after my shift. I give Eric and Yuwanda the same drugstore excuse as the other day. They know I’m lying. They’re being good friends, giving me the space I need.

I hate lying to them. I’m terrible at it. But I have no other choice.

When I get there, his truck is parked in the driveway. He’s here. He’s right here.

I watch from the road, about a hundred feet away, where the trees are thick and the weeds high. What would I do if he saw me? Maybe I’d tell him my car stalled and I was about to call for help. He’d tell me not to move. He’d run to the house, then back to me, holding up a pair of jumper cables.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if he saw me.

Still, I turn the engine off. My lights, too. The shades inside his house are drawn but I can tell the lights are on downstairs, and in two rooms upstairs.

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