Page 66 of The Tenant
“That is…” I cough. “Wow. That’s pretty awful. Was she ever charged?”
“They were attempting to get the police to look into it,” she says. “But then Whitney took off. I mean, just flat out left town. Didn’t even bother to finish high school. Even her parents didn’t know where she went—or so they claimed.”
“Oh.”
“I always thought she left the country,” the woman muses. “She seemed like the sort of person who wanted to travel the world. Either way, she had to get out of town because there was too much heat. If she had stayed, there probably would have been charges against her.”
“Well, she’s back in Manhattan now,” I say weakly. “So…”
“Oh gosh, I’ve been talking your ear off, haven’t I?” she sighs. “Listen, I didn’t want to upset you. Those were all rumors, and they happened quite a long time ago.”
Yet she hasn’t changed at all.
“It’s fine,” I manage. “It’s certainly good information to have.”
“Do you still want that transcript, Mr. Sanders?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, that would be great.”
I read off the virtual fax number I own, which forwards to my email account. The very helpful secretary at Telmont High bids me goodbye and good luck, and I wait for the fax to come in with Whitney’s transcript.
After I hang up the phone, my hands won’t stop shaking. I go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face, and when I look in the mirror over the sink…I look like a disaster. My hair is sticking up, there are dark purple circles under my eyes, and I look ten years older than I did a few months ago. Even my teeth don’t look as pearly white as they used to.
I wonder how Whitney’s old boyfriend looked before he plummeted off the roof.
That poor kid, Jordan Gallo. He committed one sin against Whitney Cross, and she made him pay the ultimate price.
And now she’s doing it to me. Except in this case, I don’t understand why.
I dry my face off and wander into the kitchen. I’m itching to have a beer, just to calm my nerves, but I recognize that it is ten in the morning. I don’t want to go down that path. Instead, I pour myself a glass of water from the sink. While I’m filling up my glass, a housefly buzzes in my face. The flies have come back with a vengeance lately, although these are of a larger variety. I wonder if Whitney stashed more of that rotting fruit in my kitchen. I wouldn’t put it past her.
This time, I notice the flies are gathered around the crack of space between the kitchen counter and the refrigerator. The gap is about three inches—just large enough to squeeze in a rotting apple or pear, something along those lines. There’s got to be something in there. I’m sure of it.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and turn on the flashlight. I shine it into the wedge of space, and sure enough, I can just barely make out what looks like a paper bag stuffed into the gap.
Part of me wants to just leave it there. I don’t want to deal with more maggots—not right now. But when I lean close to the space, trying to get a better look, the smell turns my stomach. It smells different and much worse than before.
What the hell is in there?
I crouch down next to the refrigerator. I reach my arm into the gap, trying to grab the paper bag. My arm isn’t quite long enough though. I can’t reach it. I need a few more inches.
I get up and sift through one of the drawers, and I pull out a serving spoon. I return to the refrigerator, and this time, I use the spoon to nudge the bag closer to the opening. After a few notches, I’m able to grab on to the corner of the bag, and I pull it out.
If I had any doubt in my mind that whatever is inside the bag is the cause of the stench and the flies, that doubt has flown out of my head. Even before I look inside, the sweet, putrid odor is overpowering. The insects are fighting to get close to it, whatever it is.
I have to look inside. I have to know what is in this bag. I don’t want to, but I need to see.
Man up, Blake. How bad could it be?
My hands are still shaking. I squint into the depths of the brown paper bag, trying to get a good look without spilling the contents onto the kitchen counter. It looks like there are three small objects, each about three inches long.
What the…
Oh God.
OhGod.
This is much worse than I thought.
