Page 46 of The Tenant
Krista zips up the suitcase, even though it’s only half full. She didn’t even bring any of her shoes—she’s that eager to get the hell out of here. “I think I better go.”
“Krista.” I step in front of the door, blocking her path. “You’ve got to believe me. Whitney is setting me up for all this. She’s been making weird noises all night to keep me from sleeping. She put the rotting fruit in the cabinet. And she’s the one who poisoned Goldy, then put the bleach in the closet to frame me.”
“Blake, are you listening to yourself?”
Her eyes meet mine. She doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. She thinks I’ve lost my mind—or worse.
“I’m leaving,” she says. “Like I said, I need a few days to clear my head.”
I don’t want her to leave. For a split second, a thought occurs to me: I’m a lot bigger and stronger than Krista. And it’s not like she has a weapon. She might not want to stay, but I couldmakeher stay. Make hersee.
“Blake,” she says, and there’s a sudden flicker of fear in her eyes.
I quickly step out of her way, horrified by my own thoughts. What am Idoing? I wouldneverforce a woman to stay with me. How could that idea have even crossed my mind? I’m not that guy. My mother taught me torespectwomen.
What has Whitney done to me?
But I do follow Krista downstairs. I watch her grab her jacket and slip her feet into her sneakers. She’s really leaving. And I have no idea when she’s coming back. If ever.
“I love you, Krista,” I say. My voice cracks on the words.
She turns to look at me, and the expression on her face almost breaks me. She doesn’t seem angry. She just looks miserable.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice quakes. “This wasn’t what I wanted to happen.”
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I follow her out the front door. I don’t know what I’m expecting exactly. Yet I can’t seem to stop.
“Krista,” I say again. “Can we talk about this more? Please?”
She doesn’t answer me at all this time. Instead, she sticks out her right hand to hail a taxi.
In the best of times, it takes several minutes to find a cab in our neighborhood, and we usually have to wait for an Uber. So naturally, a second later, a yellow taxi skids to a halt in front of the brownstone, splashing me with the contents of a puddle while leaving Krista relatively dry. She doesn’t waste a second before climbing inside.
“Krista!” I shout.
She doesn’t even turn to watch me through the window.
The cab zips away a second later, before I even have a chance to say goodbye. I watch it vanish into the distance, wondering if this will be the last time I ever see Krista. The next time she returns to the brownstone, it’ll be at a time she knows I’m at work so she can take the rest of her belongings without me bothering her.
No, I won’t let that happen. I’m getting Krista back.
No matter what it takes.
“Porter!”
The crackly old voice from behind me sets all my nerves on edge. Not this. Not now. I turn around, my hands already balled into fists. I’m not in the mood for Mr. Zimmerly.
“How many times am I going to need to tell you to take in your trash cans?” Mr. Zimmerly barks at me.
As he says the words, a few flecks of his spittle hit me in the face.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “It’s been a rough day, so I didn’t get to it.”
“It’s beentwo days,” he points out.
Has it? Damn.
“Trash day wasyesterday. You left your cans out here for two days.” He hawks up some gross-sounding phlegm. “You think the street is your own personal garbage can, Porter?”
