He took an inventory of the room. The apartment was tiny: a living room dining room combo that housed a round table with four chairs—who would he invite over?—brown couch and matching club chair, and a flat screen TV. A TV! He never watched TV because he never had the opportunity. It was always glued to some fishing show, and one particularly brutal fight with his father taught him to never change the channel.
He walked over to the TV and reached out his hand, letting it glide slowly over the smooth plastic. He smiled, showing his teeth. He rarely smiled so big, and thought in that moment that an electronic device had way too much power over him. An unhealthy attachment was born, and he wondered how much damage forty-two inches of plastic pixels could inflict. He backed away reluctantly and turned around.
He noticed a throw blanket folded at the corner of the couch. Couch pillows. A compact coffee table with a candle in the center. Generic pictures of mountain ranges hung on the walls. Sheer curtains draped the window.
The excitement built despite his effort to control his emotions. He sprang to the kitchen and tore open the cupboards. Plates, bowls, glasses, pots, and pans. Utensils and potholders. Tea towels, for Christ’s sake! Carol even stocked the cabinet under the sink with dish detergent and other cleaning products. He paused in front of the fridge, hand poised.
“Just maybe,” he whispered, and opened the door.
Food. And lots of it. Tupperware containers marked with the days of the week. His dinners, courtesy of Carol. Milk. So much milk! He grabbed a carton and drank greedily, then carried the milk with him down a narrow hallway to his bedroom and bath. A bed. A nightstand with an ancient alarm clock. Bath towels and soap and a new razor. He felt spoiled in that moment. He felt what other kids must feel who get everything they want. He was one of them for the first time.
Roy cleared his throat. Jeremy whirled around.
“I won’t be coming in unannounced after today,” he said. “Just wanted to see that you’re settled.”
Jeremy bit his lip.
“Carol made you dinners for the rest of the week,” Roy went on. “To help with the transition.”
Jeremy nodded.
“Don’t get used to it, though. You’re responsible for all your utilities and food expenses.”
More nodding.
“You should have all the basics, though.”
Still more nodding.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jeremy! Use your damn words!” Roy cried.
“You . . . you didn’t have to do all this,” Jeremy whispered.
“Do what?”
“You know.” It was impossible for him to look at Roy. He hung his head and kicked at the carpet.
“Do what?” Roy repeated. “And stand up straight when you’re talking to me.”
Jeremy sighed. “Furnish this place,” he said, forcing his eyes to meet Roy’s. He knew his face was beet red.
“It’s been furnished,” Roy replied. “That’s how we’ve always rented it.”
Bullshit. Jeremy saw the latest tenants move out. They had a moving truck, and he watched them load piece after piece of large furniture items. He smiled then. Roy noticed.
“Go put that milk away,” Roy ordered. “Keep food in the kitchen and dining room, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I don’t want dishes piling up in that sink. You’ve got hands and detergent. Use ’em.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I expect a ‘thank you’ to my wife for all that cooking.”
“You got it.”
Roy hovered near the front door, his face registering an awkward pain as he battled the statements in his head. They were all emotional and sappy and unwarranted, and yet he felt justified in delivering at least one of them. The problem was deciding which would embarrass Jeremy the least.
Please don’t, Jeremy thought desperately. He didn’t want to hear “Jeremy, you’re like a son to me” or “I love you, kid” or “What else do you need?” He couldn’t possibly need anything else. He was filled to the brim with all of Roy and Carol’s kindnesses—feeling drunk on a foreign feeling he could only identify as real love. But he did not need Roy to voice it. Those words would ruin everything.
“Well, you’re home now,” Roy said finally. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s good, then,” Roy mumbled. He turned the doorknob, then paused. “There’s no Sunday dinner in there.” He pointed toward the kitchen.
“I know.”
“We eat at seven. Sharp.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t. I swear.”
Now Roy averted his eyes. He opened the door and paused in the threshold.
“Be a good boy,” he said gruffly, and walked out.
Jeremy stood staring at the black door, replaying Roy’s words as he thought about his recent encounter with Regan. He tackled her to the ground. Be a good boy. He yelled at her. Be a good boy. He lied to her about his character, playing the pathetic victim so she would believe in his false innocence. Be a good boy. He planned to kill people.
Be a good boy.
“I can’t,” he confessed out loud. “I can’t, Roy. I’m sorry.”
He thought he should have heard an echo, resounding loud and menacing in his cavernous heart. He knew all the goodness left him the moment he uttered the words “I can’t” because he secretly meant “I won’t.”
***
He awoke in a panic. He swore she opened her mouth to someone. His days were numbered—the time ticking ticking ticking above his head, counting down to zero when the bomb would explode. He imagined S.W.A.T. teams bursting through every orifice of the apartment, shattering glass and splitting doors, slamming him to the ground and screaming in his face. He would hang his head in shame as they escorted him to the police car, unable to look at Roy and Carol. He could imagine their faces—shocked and horrified that they rented their apartment to a mass murderer.
“But he was such a good kid,” they’d say, unable to admit they’d been duped.