Page 77 of The Quiet Tenant

Every night, I dream of him. Every morning, I feel the void of his absence all over again. I think about him. I think about his dark house and its lack of Christmas lights. How my brain feels like that sometimes—dim, closed in on itself, not a glimmer of light poking through.

In those moments, I would give anything for someone to barge in.

I get to work. Laundry is overdue, two weeks’ worth of button-down shirts oozing out of the hamper. At the back of a drawer, a coral wool sweater saves me. The silver necklace falls in the V-shaped neckline, between my collarbones. I rescue a pair of decently cleanjeans from the pile of clothes at the foot of my bed. Power up the blow-dryer, run a brush through my hair. Concealer, blush, powder, mascara. Lip gloss. Lip gloss?

I pause, the sparkly wand inches from my face.

No.

No lip gloss. Too girly. The man I’m looking for—he’s a real man. A father. Not some creep with a Lolita complex.

Lipstick, I decide. Blotted onto my lips with the tips of my fingers. A discreet hue, like I’ve bitten into a cherry or sipped dark-red wine.

I lace my snow boots with shaky fingers. Something like excitement constricts my chest.

I will wait, however long it takes. He will come home and I will be there—well, nottherethere, I’m not completely crazy. I will be in the neighborhood, doing errands. We’ll run into each other by chance. He’ll provide an explanation for his silence and I’ll say,Tsssk, don’t even mention it. Life happens. We’ve all been busy.

You have to make things happen for yourself. That’s what everyone says—magazines, life coaches in morning-show interviews, every dude ever.So-and-so stole your idea? Grabbed your ass on his way to the walk-in? Toughen up. Don’t go to HR. Only trouble goes to HR. Ignore them. Ignore the surge of anxiety that wrings your intestines every day when you show up for work. Keep working. Be better than them. That’s the best kind of revenge.

Be bold. Be brave. Make them see you. Make them listen.

I zip up my coat, grab my car keys, and head downstairs, the echo of my feet on the steps like a declaration of faith.

CHAPTER 52

The woman in the house, always in the house

The house is begging you to do it. It wants to tell you everything, if only you would let it.

It has to be safe. Something that could be explained away if he saw it on the screen of his phone.

Rule number eight of staying alive outside the shed: Know the things you can get away with.

Without meaning to, he has taught you how to recognize them. The shape of them. The feel of them. They are lazy things, treacherous things. Things that look like nothing. Things that hide their importance.

It has to be, you have decided, the bookshelf.

Once Cecilia is upstairs, you approach. Bring your hand up to the row of books. The paperbacks, the medical thrillers. His stuff or his dead wife’s stuff. Either way, something you’re not supposed to touch.

You think of a rose under a bell jar, of a villager locked up in a castle by a beast. You think of a man named Bluebeard and the wives he kept killing because they wouldn’t stay away from his secret room. You think of the last woman. Bluebeard went after her, too. It was her sister Anne who saved her, you remember from a book of fairy tales.

You do not have a sister Anne.

You raise your arm and, with the tip of a finger, tilt the spine of the nearest book toward you.

What you see: a title,Coma,and a body floating in midair, held up by ropes. What you see: his things, disturbed by you.

And then, a rattle.

Your body stiffens. You push the book back into its rightful spot, jump to the couch. It must be him. Who else? His daughter is upstairs. They don’t have visitors, ever.

You prepare your excuses.I was just looking for something to read. I promise. What kind of trouble was I going to get into with a book? I’msorry. It’s a paperback. I’m sorry. You can’t hurt anyone with a paperback. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

But—the doorbell. Once, twice.

It’s not him.

Right?

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