Page 87 of The Quiet Tenant

It takes time. You need to practice. Like speaking a foreign language, like learning a new dance: each attempt gets you a little closer. You keep one eye on the lock, one on the disappearing rectangles of light around the drawn shades. You do not have all day.

Think. Remember. It doesn’t come easy to your brain, remembering. You have allowed parts of yourself to fade away. You had to.

And now you need them back.

Those round locks, Matt used to tell you. Those round locks are among the easiest to pick. It was all so straightforward in theory: apply pressure, wriggle, find your way around the mechanism. Listen for a click. The most important part, Matt used to say, was to secure the right tool. It had to be tiny but sturdy. Inconspicuous but deadly. If you knew where you were going, your fingers would figure out how to get you there.

Where you are going: his brain, his mind. The pounding force of him, locked and hidden away.

There is a series of clicks, and the lock turns.

You put the safety pin, both parts of it, in the pocket of your hoodie, with Cecilia’s pen.

Try the doorknob again.

It works.

Do it.

You open the door underneath the stairs. It creaks to reveal a flight of concrete steps.

Down you go.

CHAPTER 60

The woman, descending

Darkness envelops you. Blood pulsing in your ears, you feel for a light switch. You can’t afford to trip, to scrape your knee. Can’t afford so much as an unexpected bruise on your shin.

At the bottom of the stairs, your fingers bump into what you’ve been searching for. A click, and the yellow light of a bare lightbulb reveals your surroundings.

It’s the basement. He’s using it as some sort of man cave–storage unit hybrid. A patio chair next to a small folding table. A reusable water bottle, a flashlight. Stacks of cardboard boxes against the back wall. To the side, the workbench. His tools: pliers, hammer, zip ties.

The air in here smells like him. Like the woods, like oranges, something outdoorsy and prickly. A smell you wouldn’t fear unless you really knew him.

This is where he comes to be alone. To hear himself think. It’s a meditation room, a place where he can be himself.

Your hand hovers above his tools. The pliers: Do you pick them up, try to slide them between your skin and the plastic band?

These aren’t ordinary pliers. They are his. They have traveled with him, done his bidding.

You take your hand back.

Focus. You didn’t come here for pliers. You came here for secrets and stolen goods. You came here for the hidden corners of his heart.

You step closer to the boxes. They have words scribbled on them:kitchen stuff, clothes, books,and so on. Leftover items he couldn’t fit in the new house but decided to hold on to.

Some of the boxes saycaroline.

Aidan, Cecilia, and Caroline. The mother who gave her daughter her own initial.

You reach for the nearest Caroline box. It’s taped shut. You can’topen it—can’t risk ripping the cardboard, messing up the tape. What would you even hope to find? A voice? A spirit?

Caroline. She must not have known. You saw him outside. You saw how he inhabited the world, his effect on the judge that one day. You saw him charming and polite and friendly. She must have left in peace, knowing that if her daughter fell, he would be the one to catchher.

Opening the boxes is a no-go, but you can move them around. Take them down one by one, memorizing the order in which they were piled up so you can restack them properly when you’re done. You want to read the scribbles on each of them, weigh their contents between your hands. Stick your ear against the cardboard and hope that whatever’s inside will speak to you.

A film of sweat coats your face. Your arms hurt, your legs, too. You keep going, the fuzzy power of adrenaline coursing through you.

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