Page 55 of The Tenant
I don’t know how I didn’t notice until now, but at some point in the last few weeks, this rug has moved. It used to be mostly under the coffee table, but now more than half of it isbesidethe coffee table, covering the path from the sofa to the kitchen. I remember noticing something seemed a little bit off about the living room, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until this moment.
Why would somebody move the rug?
Despite (or maybe because of) my inebriation, I decide to relocate the rug to its rightful location. I shove away the coffee table, which is holding the rug in place, and then I pull it off the floor. But as I pull the rug away, I notice that on the rectangle of hardwood floor where it used to lie, there is a large brown stain.
What isthat?
Why is there a stain on my floor? I squint, trying to figure out what the hell I’m looking at. It wasn’t there when I moved in, but it’s been there long enough that whatever it is seems embedded in the floorboards. How do you end up with a stainunderthe rug when the rug itself is clean?
Did somebody move the rug to cover the stain?
I narrow my eyes at the brown stain that is about half a foot in diameter. I don’t know what it is. It looks like somebody might’ve spilled a glass of wine.
I crouch down next to the irregular brown circle and run my fingers along the floorboards. It’s long since dried. I wonder if I can get it out.
I make another trip back to the kitchen and grab a handful of wet paper towels, along with some cleaning spray from below the sink. I am going to be so pissed at Whitney if she spilled some crap on my floor and I can’t get it off. That’s coming straight out of the deposit.
I spray a liberal amount of the cleaning fluid on the floorboards and wait for sixty seconds to allow it to absorb. It’s probably not long enough, but I don’t want to spend the entire night cleaning the floor, so I do a first pass with the paper towel. To my relief, some of the material on the floorboards wipes off on the paper towel. Except…
I didn’t notice this when the stain was dry, but now that it’s on the paper towel, it’s clear that I got the color wrong. The stain is not brown.
It’s dark red.
It’s got to be wine. It’s the right color. Well, not exactly—it doesn’t have that purplish hue that I sometimes associate with wine. But it’s got to be. What else could it be? What other dark red liquid could have stained my floor boards?
Okay, there is one other thing it could be.
Yes, it is the exact color of blood. It much more closely resembles blood than wine. And it has a strange metallic smell. But it can’t be that. Because why would there be a bloodstain all over my floor?
While I am staring down at the paper towel, trying to sort this out in my beer-muddled brain, the doorbell rings. I leap to my feet, my heart racing. Is there any chance this could be Krista? I haven’t heard from her, but maybe she decided to pop by.
Even if she’s only here to pick up some extra clothing, I hope it’s her.
After a brief hesitation, I toss the carpet back on the floor to cover the stain. Though some of it came off on the paper towel, it’s still very visible. At the very least, I don’t want Krista to see it.
But it isn’t Krista that I see through the peephole. It’s a man dressed in a dark suit, standing in front of my door. I don’t recognize him, and for a second, I just stand there, trying to figure out what the hell this strange man would be doing ringing my doorbell at eight o’clock at night.
And then he rings again.
“Who is it?” I call through the door.
“This is Detective Garrison from the NYPD,” he speaks up, loud enough to project through the door. “Could I have a moment of your time, Mr. Porter?”
Why is there a detective at my door? I look over my shoulder at the rug that is now concealing what may very well be a bloodstain on the floor of my house. But he couldn’t be here about that.
Shit. I don’t want to let a detective into my house right now—or ever, really. But what am I supposed to do? Tell him to go away, please come back later? That isn’t an option.
Finally, I crack open the door. It’s only after the cold November air hits me that it occurs to me that I am in an undershirt and boxer shorts. Not exactly ideal apparel for talking to a detective. But I’m sure he’s seen worse.
The detective is relatively unassuming. Fortyish, dark brown hair and brown eyes. No distinguishing features aside from a couple of grooves in his cheeks that make him look older than he probably is. The only remarkable thing about him is his voice, which is deeper than it rightfully should be for his height and build.
“Blake Porter?” he asks me.
“Uh-huh.”
“Detective Garrison,” he says, even though he told me his name through the door. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. It’s about your neighbor.”
I’m not thrilled about inviting a detective into my home when there’s something potentially suspicious under the rug. But then again, it’s covered. And the detective isn’t investigating a homicide. I’m not sure why he wants to talk to me about Mr. Zimmerly, but it seems benign. There’s nothing too exciting about an old man slipping and hitting his head in his own bathroom.
