The Tenant

by Freida McFadden

Six months ago, someone stood in this exact spot—on the twenty-fifth floor of the high-rise building that houses Coble & Roy, the Manhattan marketing firm where I work—and tried to jump.

I’ve heard ice-cold showers are for psychopaths, but I’m addicted—I’ve been doing it since college.

They shake hands, but a split second after their palms make contact, Quillizabeth yanks her hand away as if she’s been scalded. She stumbles back, her hands trembling.

“He’s going to kill you,” the older woman blurts out. “Blake is going to kill you, Krista. You have to get away from here.”

“He’s going to stab you with a kitchen knife.” Quillizabeth points a shaky finger at the rug beneath our feet. “It’s going to happen right here. I saw a vision of him crouching over your body, watching you bleed to death.”

Is there a chance she’s taking this woman seriously? She’s literally wearing a tinfoil hat.

“I’ve never done anything to make you distrust me,” I point out. And that’s true. Well, as far as she knows.

“This is our fish, Goldy,” Krista says proudly, like she’s our child who just graduated from Harvard. But I can’t say I don’t have a bit of pride over how Goldy does those little loop-de-loops around the bowl. Do all fish do that? I think Goldy might be gifted.

Okay, now I’m having a conversation with a fish. Maybe my blood sugar is low.

“When I want something, I never let anything get in my way.” I bob my head. “Same.”

apparently an undershirt and boxer shorts are not “appropriate attire” for a goldfish funeral.

“Well,” Krista says thoughtfully, “for a person who is about six feet tall, you’re supposed to make the grave six feet deep. So for a fish that is about two inches long… I don’t know? Just a few inches, I guess.”

“Whitney Cross—she’s extremely dangerous. If I were you, I would stay far away.”

Because the teenage girl in that photo is not the woman who has been living in our guest bedroom, the one who’s been tormenting me. The one who calls herself Whitney Cross. No, the teenage girl in the photograph is somebody entirely different. It’s Krista.

It was one time. One time. It didn’t mean anything. I was working such long hours, trying to snag that promotion, and she was there, and I just… I slipped.

Elijah is waiting on a park bench, wearing the same Linux baseball cap with a penguin on it that he’s had since high school, which now looks like it has seen better days.

Anyway, if she didn’t want her hair to catch fire, she shouldn’t have worn so much hair spray.

“He’s going to stab you with a kitchen knife.” Quillizabeth points to the floor beneath our feet. “It’s going to happen right here.”

Except it won’t be Blake standing over my dead body. It will be me, standing over him.

Anyway, I’m not a terrible person. I gave Elijah a good time before I cut his throat open. He literally went out with a bang.

She’s very prompt. She’s also clean and gives us rent on time, and she’s relatively quiet. She is, in many ways, the perfect tenant. And I hate her with every fiber of my being.

I knew I’d never live happily ever after. My mother was right. I knew it. I…

But also, sleeping with a woman who saved your life did seem like a good antidote to your girlfriend trying to kill you.

will miss him though. He’s a nice guy, very easy on the eyes, and a great kisser. I can see why Krista was so possessive of him. I also love how he believed every word I told him.