The Perfect Tenant

Chapter 9

As the evening wears on, I find myself drifting between groups, picking up fragments of conversation. The wine in my glass remains mostly untouched; I need to keep my wits about me. Every laugh, every whisper seems to hold a hidden meaning, and I'm desperate to decipher it all.

I've just extracted myself from a mind-numbing discussion about local property taxes when I overhear something that makes me freeze mid-step, my heart suddenly pounding in my ears.

"It's been what, seven years since it happened?" a man's voice carries over from a nearby cluster of neighbors.

"Shh, not so loud," a woman hisses back. "You know we don't talk about that."

Seven years. The timeframe aligns perfectly with Emily's disappearance. I edge closer, pretending to admire a nearby flowerbed, my hands trembling slightly as I strain to hear more.

"I'm surprised they've found a new tenant," another voice chimes in. "I mean who would want to live there after all that unpleasantness with that poor girl... what was her name again?"

"Emily," someone supplies, and my breath catches. The name sends a chill down my spine, confirming my suspicions.

"Enough," a voice cuts through the whispers, sharp as a knife.

I glance up to see the elderly woman I noticed earlier. Her steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I have the unsettling feeling that she can see right through me, reading my every thought.

"This isn't the time or place for ghost stories." The group disperses, leaving me with more questions than answers. Emily. The name echoes in my mind, connecting to the scraps of information I've gathered so far.

I'm so lost in thought that I nearly jump when a hand touches my arm. It's Patricia, our host, her smile a bit too bright, her eyes holding a hint of desperation.

"Emma, dear, are you enjoying yourself?" she asks, steering me towards a quieter corner of the yard. Her grip on my arm is just a little too tight, as if she's afraid I might slip away.

"Oh, yes," I say, trying to choose my words carefully. "Everyone's been so welcoming."

Patricia nods, her eyes darting around before leaning in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Listen, I don't mean to pry, but... have you noticed anything strange in the guesthouse?"

My pulse quickens, a rush of adrenaline flooding my system. "Strange? How do you mean?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, David materializes beside us, as if conjured by our conversation. His sudden appearance makes me wonder if he's been watching us all along.

"Patricia, I hope you're not filling Emma's head with those old neighborhood tales," he says, his tone light but his eyes hard as flint.

Patricia offers a brittle laugh. "Of course not, David. Just making small talk."

But as David leads me away, ostensibly to introduce me to more neighbors, I catch Patricia's worried glance. There's fear in her eyes, and something else. A warning?

As we walk, David keeps his voice low, his breath warm against my ear. "I hope you're not letting the neighborhood gossip bother you, Emma. Small towns, you know how it is. People love to talk."

I force a smile, though my instincts are screaming at me to run. "Not at all. Though I have to admit, I'm curious about the history of the guesthouse. It seems to be quite the topic of conversation."

David's step falters for just a moment, so brief I almost miss it. "Oh, it's nothing really. Just an old house with the usual creaks and quirks. Nothing to concern yourself with."