Page 4 of The Invisible Roommate

“Sounds good.” Gerard tumbled out of the cart and retrieved his suitcase and guitar.

“As the vice mayor, me and the wife are sort of the unofficial organizers on the island,” he said.

The wife. Gerard deflated slightly. “That’s really nice of you to invite me,” he said. But Halloween was weeks away. He wasn’t certain he could survive undetected until then.

“Give Regina a hello from the Marshalls.” Kellen waved and then took off.

When Gerard turned back to the house, the sun had disappeared behind a curtain of ominous-looking clouds, giving the Victorian a new dramatic backdrop. Breathing heavily, he gulped down his fear before climbing the steps and knocking on the deep-purple door.

2

“You’re in luck,” Regina told Gerard, leading the way around the side of the house.

She was a short, slender wisp of a woman with a nose so beakish she could’ve been mistaken for one of the island’s many cormorants. Her hair was gray at the roots and red at the tips as if the color were waterfalling right off her head, and she had it styled short like an old-timey paper boy. The temperature was only in the high sixties, yet she wore a stained pink tank top and plaid “shorts” that just barely cleared her scraped knees. Her feet were bare and muddy, but she didn’t seem to mind as she clomped through the fresh dirt with a speed that implied a youth her wrinkled, mottled hands contradicted.

“My tenant up and vanished a few weeks back. Paid for the month, and then poof, disappeared,” she said.

“Disappeared?” Gerard asked, concerned.

She continued speaking, clearly not having heard him. “I liked the boy. Nerdy, perhaps a little rude but not in a mean way. I couldn’t picture him committing any crimes, but there was some trouble with the law around here. I think he might’ve run away,” she said.

“What sort of trouble?” he asked, louder this time. He was surprised at how easily she disclosed information after knowing him for all of five minutes.

“Theft mostly, and, well—” She paused. “You’ll see.”

Before they climbed a staircase sloped at such a steep angle it appeared to be rising into the ashen sky, Gerard pointed to a rectangular building with a row of tangerine doors brushing up against the beach but still on the property. “What about those? Are those for rent?”

“Those used to be nightly rentals. Nobody has stayed there in years. You won’t want to either unless you like wading through a pool of water to get back to the road every morning,” she said. “I need to get someone out here to move that whole structure inland. If it’s even worth it with the time we’ve got left. Maybe I’ll wait for the government buyout. The tides are chomping away at our shorelines as they have been for decades. I’m anti-wall, to be clear, but here? We need it or we’ll be swimming with the fishes sooner rather than later. Do you think I could get gill implants?”

Uncertain if she was joking or not, Gerard didn’t respond. Instead he left his suitcase and guitar at the bottom of the stairs and followed her up. Regina was going to get splinters in her soles from the jagged, unvarnished steps, but if her feet were half as calloused as her hands, then she must not have needed to worry.

At the landing, Regina unlocked and opened the door. A wave of chemical stench smacked them both in the face. The odor was enough to knock Gerard back a step.

The apartment was a studio. One long, nicely appointed yet cluttered room. Every inch of free table space was covered with beakers, test tubes, and scales. Several lab coats and pairs of goggles hung from the brass-pronged coatrack. A stranger’s clothes remained in a heap on the floor.

“Tried to clean as best I could, but…” Regina seemed resigned. “The police took the blood, so at least I didn’t have to worry about that.”

“Blood?” he asked, alarm rising in his voice.

“Bagged. Barely any. Don’t worry. It wasn’t a crime scene,” she said.

The roof of the room slanted at an odd angle. The kitchen had high ceilings and a gorgeous skylight, but the bed couldn’t even fit a headboard behind it. Such was the way when an old house got converted into separate units. The apartment must’ve been the attic at one point.

“This was my husband’s childhood home. We moved his father up here in his old age, but he passed pretty soon after. God rest his soul,” she said reverently, bowing her head. Out of respect, Gerard did the same.

“Does your husband live with you?” Gerard asked.

“He’s gone, too,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Embarrassed heat cropped up on his cheeks.

“Better him than me.”

At the bluntness of her statement, Gerard was unable to mask his shock.

“I loved the man. Believe me so. But he was older and more reliant on me, and he never quite got the hang of being nice to tourists. I don’t blame him. They come onto your island, eat your crabs, drive your golf carts, and make fun of your accents,” she said, as if the list could go on forever if he’d let it.

“You don’t have an accent,” he pointed out, then feared he’d somehow offended her.