The Perfect Tenant

Chapter 20

Double Chapter - Part 1

The late afternoon sun bathes the guesthouse garden in a warm light. Its rays dance across my skin, but fail to penetrate the cold hollow that's taken residence in my chest since last night's nightmare. Emily's face - for I'm certain that it was her - floats behind my eyelids every time I blink, her desperate plea a constant whisper in the recesses of my mind. "Look at me."

In a futile attempt to silence the cacophony of my thoughts, I've turned to a long-forgotten hobby: gardening. I'm on my knees, trowel in hand, trying to coax some life into the neglected flowerbeds. Each weed I pull feels like a small victory, a moment of control in a world that's spinning wildly off its axis.

Zoey is at a friend's house for a playdate, and the main house looms silent and watchful behind me. I try to focus solely on the task at hand - not on hidden keys or mysterious attics or sad girls who haunt my dreams. Just the repetitive motion of dig, pull, plant. Dig, pull, plant. The rhythm should be soothing, but even as I work, I can't fully escape the lingering unease. It clings to me like the dirt under my fingernails, impossible to scrub away completely.

"Well, well," a familiar voice cuts through the air, sharp as the trowel in my hand. "Looks like someone's got a green thumb after all."

I look up to see Mrs. Whitmore peering over the low fence that separates the guesthouse garden from the main path. Her silver hair catches the light, creating a halo effect that's at odds with the knowing glint in her eyes.

"Mrs. Whitmore," I say, sitting back on my heels and wiping my brow with the back of my hand. Sweat mingles with the dirt, leaving a gritty trail across my skin. "I'm not sure about the green thumb. More like fumbling in the dark, really." The words taste bitter on my tongue, too close to the truth of my situation for comfort.

She chuckles, a warm, rich sound that seems to vibrate in the air between us. "Oh, nonsense, dear. Those petunias are already looking perkier. Mind if I join you for a bit? I do love a good garden chat."

Before I can respond, she's unlatching the gate and making her way over to me. With surprising agility for a woman her age, she lowers herself onto a nearby bench, smoothing her skirt as she settles.

"Now then," she says, her eyes roving over the half-tended flowerbed. "How are you finding life at Maple Grove? Any more... unusual occurrences?"

There's something in her tone, a hint of... concern, maybe? Or curiosity? I choose my words carefully. "It's been OK, maybe not what I initially imagined but I'm grateful. The place seems to hold a lot of history."

"Mm," Mrs. Whitmore hums, her gaze now fixed on the main house behind us. The sound reverberates in my chest, almost painful in its intensity. "History, indeed. This house has seen its share of joy and sorrow. More sorrow than most, perhaps."

I pause in my weeding, my interest piqued. The trowel hangs forgotten in my hand. "What do you mean by that, Mrs. Whitmore?"

She sighs, a heavy sound that seems to suck the warmth from the air around us. "Oh, it's not my place to gossip. But this house... it's seen its share of sorrow, dear. More than its share, some might say."

I sit back, giving Mrs. Whitmore my full attention now. The petunias can wait. This feels important, vital even. "Sorrow? What kind of sorrow?"

Mrs. Whitmore is quiet for a long moment, her eyes distant as if looking into the past. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, tinged with a sadness that makes my skin prickle. "Did you know that David and Olivia had another child? Before Lily?"

I nod slowly, remembering David's words about the nursery. The memory feels hazy, dreamlike. "Yes, David mentioned they lost a child. It must have been devastating for them."