Page 85 of The Invisible Roommate

Iping looked out for Emory by keeping his secrets, both his invisibility and his crimes. The way Sergeant Adye saw it was that if nobody wanted to press charges, no crimes had been committed. Since the power had been out, he hadn’t filed the proper paperwork regarding Emory’s arrest. No arrest, no charges, no record.

But there still had to be penance.

Emory wouldn’t have had it any other way. Especially if it meant securing a home among such good, forgiving people. People he’d written off as small and simple that he now owed his life and heart to.

Not only was Emory required to repay everyone he’d stolen from on the island, but he needed to do one hundred hours of community service to help beautify the island again. The tropical storm had done a number on it, but so had the monsoon of Wellies that had overrun the place earlier that day.

When Emory entered the apartment, he almost preferred the drab, dank grayness of the jail cell over the solitude of the space without Gerard.

Most of Gerard’s belongings were still there—that was a good sign—but Emory had known earlier that he wouldn’t find Gerard when he keyed inside. The flap and drone of helicopter propellers had broken through the static hum of the holding cell right before Sergeant Adye visited him again, and in the same way he’d sensed his mom was long gone when he shivered on that bench outside the fire station decades ago, he’d sensed Gerard’s dramatic exit from Iping before he’d known anything about the viral video or the fans.

At first, he looked around the apartment, unsure of what to do with himself. Around that time every day for nearly four weeks, he’d cooked dinner for two, but he had no energy and no second mouth to feed. Except Marvel Jr.’s, but Emory quickly scrounged up some grains for his little friend.

Afterward, he puttered around, opened every drawer in the kitchen, and parted the doors of the wardrobe. He catalogued and counted everything. All the vestiges of Gerard. He even included Gerard’s scent, which lingered in the air, much to his delight. But he had to be honest with himself: He was on the hunt for something specific.

If he knew anything for certain, it was that if Pascal was still there, then Gerard would be back. The longer he searched—everywhere from under the bed to the crawl space behind the bookshelf—and came up empty, the more the fan-made sign he’d rehomed became a bad omen.

Just when he was about to give up hope, there was a knock at the door.

Regina stood on the threshold. “I saw the light on. I take it everything worked out with Sergeant Adye?”

“As well as it could have,” said Emory, biting back the single question fighting to escape his mouth. Where’s Gerard?

“Good. Freshen up and come down for dinner. I made a roast.” She spoke without room for debate.

Isolating up there in that room would’ve only caused his thoughts to spiral. If Gerard was gone, he was gone. For now? For forever? He stopped the line of questioning before it devolved into obsession.

At least going downstairs with Regina meant he’d get a home-cooked meal, which was apt to be better than the meager frozen offerings provided in his cell. Iping had clearly not had a jailbird in quite some time, given their lack of preparation when it came to bedding, processes, and meals, but he’d survived. And in some ways, he was stronger for it.

Despite having lived in Regina’s house for nearly two years, he had never been downstairs. Once or twice pre-invisibility and pre-Gerard, he’d knocked and asked if she had any salt or extra toilet paper because he’d run out, but he’d never made it past the threshold. As she gestured him in, he took in the grandness of the Victorian house. The boards creaked underfoot as if welcoming him. It might’ve been eerie had Thanksgiving decorations not been tucked onto every shelf and hung from every banister. She had wasted no time moving on to the next celebration with turkeys and pilgrims and wicker cornucopias.

The smell of the roast grew stronger as they approached the kitchen toward the back of the house. They passed through a sitting room where a piano, which he had heard her play on many occasions, sat up near the front window. A fire roared nearby.

“Would you mind setting the table while I go change?” she asked, once she’d ushered him into the kitchen. He started to clear off the small table in the corner, which was littered with cooking supplies. “Leave all that. We’ll be eating in the dining room.” She retrieved a tall stack of fine dishes from a cabinet.

“Why so many?” he asked.

“For the company I invited. It’s a big roast,” she said with a sly wink, pressing the plates into his hands. “I figured you wouldn’t come down if I told you there would be others.”

A residual fear shot up his spine. A worry that he was going to be caught out or off guard.

He took a cleansing breath as she nudged him into the dining room.

People were not his enemy anymore. He brushed anxiety away like he brushed crumbs off Regina’s decorative gold-colored tablecloth.

Joe was the first guest to arrive. He seemed softer than he was on the Susanna, smiling and holding a flowering plant out to Regina. He greeted Emory with a brisk nod.

The next to arrive was the priest of the local parish, who was a balding, soft-spoken man whose mere presence made Emory bristle only out of habit.

The last to show, right before they sat down to eat, were Kellen and Angie.

Emory politely said hello and poured himself a glass of sparkling cider, wondering what all this was about.

The first course was a squash soup and fresh bread. Nobody touched it until grace was said.

Between clanks of spoons against bowls, Regina announced, “I gathered you all here so we could get to know Emory. Emory, everyone at this table played a role in seeing that you were released without charges.”

He looked around at all their nearly sheepish expressions, suddenly wondering if he was the one on the menu, not the roast. Did they want to deliver their own punishment? “I don’t understand,” he said.