The Landlord

THE LANDLORD BRANDON MASSEY DARK CORNER PUBLISHING CONTENTS Before Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 After Hear more from Brandon Also by Brandon Massey About Brandon Massey BEFORE They’ll be here soon. As still as a wooden post, Sandra Carver stood at the bedroom window and watched the road, waiting for the prospective tenants to arrive. She was a tall, gaunt woman who might have been any age between fifty-five and seventy-five. Lank, snow-white hair framed her narrow face and trailed to her shoulders. She wore a long, shapeless black dress and black leather flats. Thin lips pressed together, she clasped her hands, as if in prayer. She supposed she was offering a prayer to any god who might care. She needed a win. She needed these arriving prospects—any suitable prospect that day, actually—to sign a lease. But there were standards, too. Exacting standards. Not anyone could rent this fine property and dwell in these luxurious rooms. The tenants must be special. We must insist upon certain qualities—as we have very high expectations. Would the family arriving this morning qualify? A white Jeep Grand Cherokee turned onto the block. Butterflies took flight in her stomach. She had asked the wife what sort of vehicle they were driving, and this was the one. They had arrived. She turned away from the window and looked at herself in the mirror hanging on the nearby wall. She practiced her smile: show teeth, but not too many, or else you appear predatory. Smiling was difficult for her—when she smiled at children, they often cringed, and sometimes they snickered she resembled a wicked witch who feasted on babies. She abhorred children. But her smile was ready. She smoothed the front of her dress and went to meet her new prospects. 1 “It’s too good to be true,” Cameron Woodson said. It was a bright Saturday morning in September. Cam had entered the upscale Smyrna neighborhood—the ornate sign at the entrance read Hidden Meadows, which reminded him of a brand of salad dressing—and turned onto the tree-lined block that led to the rental house. When he saw the two-story home in the cul-de-sac, he said the first words that popped into his mind: It’s too good to be true. His wife, Desiree—her friends called her “Dez”—sat in the passenger seat. Their three-year-old daughter, Ava, giggled from her car seat in the back row and bounced a teddy bear on her lap. “It’s a lovely home and neighborhood, isn’t it?” Dez grinned at him, her eyes glittering like shiny pennies. Dez was thirty-five, with smooth russet skin and curly, dark auburn hair. After six years of marriage, Cam still thought she was as beautiful as the day they had first met. He was also thirty-five, and in his own opinion, an average-looking guy, five foot nine, with oak-brown skin and hair he maintained in a plain, low, and dark style. Sometimes, he wondered why Dez had exchanged numbers with him on that day of their fateful meeting. As one of his college buddies had told him at their wedding, “You most definitely married up, brother.” “I’ve already made my decision, babe,” Dez said. “We’re taking the house.” He pulled closer. The house sat on about a half-acre of trimmed grass, framed by mature elms and maples. Colorful azaleas bracketed the front windows. Although they had passed by a couple of other residences in the neighborhood with the same elevation—such cookie-cutter subdivisions were common in metro Atlanta—this one looked better than any of them. It featured sky-blue siding with red trim, and whoever owned the property had ensured that not a single detail was out of place. “How did you find out about this place again?” Cam asked. “Browsing online, of course. But it all checks out, babe. I researched the landlord’s company on the Better Business Bureau website, too. They’ve got a perfect A+ rating.” “This house looks like something from a magazine.” “I knew you would love it,” Dez said. “Let me see inside first. And let me remind you: it’s still above our budget.” “Boo to your budget.” Cam let the remark pass, but he felt his stomach clench. These days, every decision he made was based on their monthly budget. God knows, he wasn’t pulling gigs as an Uber driver and part-time handyman because he wanted to meet new people. A black Cadillac sedan, sleek as a shark, occupied the driveway, which ended at a two-car garage. A white panel van stood alongside the curb in front of the house. “Miss Carver said to park in the driveway,” Dez said. Cam swung into the space behind the van. The bumper bore a flag sticker of some northern European nation—Sweden, perhaps. He avoided parking in the driveway because it felt like a trick to lure him into a sense of ownership: pull on up, friend—imagine living here, come inside, and sign your life away! Dez made a tsk-tsk sound but made no further comment. He got out of his twelve-year-old Jeep and inhaled