The Perfect Tenant

The Perfect Tenant AJ Carter Copyright © 2023 by Papyrus Publishing LTD. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below. [email protected] Contents The Perfect Tenant Prologue 1. Her 2. Him 3. Her 4. Him 5. Her 6. Faith 7. Him 8. Her 9. Him 10. Her 11. Him 12. Her 13. Him 14. Faith 15. Her 16. Him 17. Her 18. Him 19. Her 20. Him 21. Her 22. Faith 23. Him 24. Her 25. Him 26. Her 27. Him 28. Her 29. Him 30. Faith 31. Her 32. Her About the Author Dedication For my wife, who keeps my dreams alive. For my daughter, who inspires me to dream bigger. For my dog, who farts in her sleep. The Perfect Tenant by AJ Carter Prologue Staring into the eyes of a dying man was a new experience, but the killer sat and took it all in. Rather than trying to taunt the helpless victim, they only sat and watched. They didn’t see what all the fuss was about. There was no addictive feeling like everyone in those documentaries said there was – no seductive compulsion to do it over and over, making it easier every time. It was simply… the end. When the victim expelled his last long, surrendering breath, the killer stood and headed for the back door, where they’d entered only a few minutes ago. Things were different now, they realised. Sleepless nights would be filled with the endless questions of what came after death. Was there a magical place where the poor soul would go to rest, or was this the end of the line for the man’s soul? Whatever happened, it wasn’t the killer’s problem any more. The man was dead, and he was God’s problem now. Chapter 1 Her Being a single mother is tough for a number of reasons, but even with a six-year-old, it’s often impossible to get out of bed on time. This morning, I hear my alarm go off four times before realising I set it for a reason. It isn’t until the fifth detonation of high-pitched rings that I slam the button and sit up to look at the time. ‘Just an hour late,’ I mumble, rushing out of bed and into some jeans with a clean top. My clothes are barely on as I hurry down the hallway and pound on Cody’s bedroom door. He screams through the wood that it’s okay for me to enter, so I poke my head through the gap. It’s a relief to see him dressed and ready to go. ‘You did that yourself?’ I ask him. ‘Yeah, but I can’t do my shoes.’ I praise him the best I can and kneel to help with the laces. Cody starts rubbing his eyes, which makes me yawn, too. My fingers are shaking with frantic hurry, which makes me mess up the knot and have to start all over again. A deep breath is all it takes, and it’s finally done. ‘Am I going to be late for school?’ he asks in that soft, sweet voice that’s impossible not to love. ‘I don’t want to be late. We’ve got history today, and that’s my favourite. Did you know that a hundred years ago, they used to wear…?’ It’s bad parenting, but I nod and make the appropriate sounds to let him know I’m interested. On any other day, I genuinely would be, but a quick look at the hallway clock tells me we’re going to be thirty minutes late, minimum, so his voice fades into the background as I run a mental checklist of the things he needs. I think I’ve got it all, stuffing things into his bag until I notice the most vital piece of the puzzle is missing. His lunch. I slap my forehead and tell Cody to wait by the door. Then comes the next quick, desperate rush as I zip around the kitchen to make a sandwich. There’s a trail of crumbs and mess in my wake, but that can be cleaned up later. Right now, my main goal is to make sure he isn’t late for the third time this year. I’d like to say that’s not my fault, but my online drop-shipping business keeps me up so late that I find it hard to get up on time. It’s not a great excuse, but it’s all I have. Like I said, parenting alone is hard. When the lunch is packed, I head for the door and find Cody standing with a thin smile on his face. He doesn’t like being shoved out the door so abruptly – and I get that – so I make a promise to do better and then zip the lunch box into his Power Rangers backpack. ‘How late are we?’ he asks, sounding so grown-up even with that sweet, young voice. ‘Pretty late.’ ‘Will I miss history?’ ‘I hope not. Come on.’ We’re all set, so I grab my car keys from the bowl and pull open the door, letting Cody run towards the Mercedes he loves so much. I always told him that Mummy was able to afford such a nice car because she works so much, but that only went so far to making him happy. I’m going to do better, I promise myself this time, finally getting out of the house and pulling the door shut. After a frantic five minutes, it looks like we’re about to get away, and maybe – just maybe – Cody won’t have to miss his favourite class. Then I hear my name called, and everything falls apart. ‘Alice?’