Page 30 of You'll Love it Here

Norm only half opens his door, leaving the safety chain intact. He’s sporting giant headphones, a dandruff-y rolled-out-of-bed-but-not-in-a-cool-way hairdo, and a freaked-out expression.

“Hi, Norm.” I give him my best professional smile, which makes him flinch an inch backward. “We’re just here to check the outlets.”

He abruptly closes the door.

For a second I’m left blinking at it, wondering how I managed to scare him off that fast, but then it opens fully a second later, and I realize he was undoing the chain. “Oh, right. I, um, forgot.” He turns away, shoulders rounded as he retreats into the suite. “Come in.”

I follow tentatively behind him, focused solely on the back of his head. Ignoring the concerning strength of the smell.

Given that Irene hasn’t been on top of maintenance for a while, it’s quite likely that nobody has entered this suite in over five years, other than Norm.

Anythingcould be in there. Honestly, the smell might be even more of a red flag than I’ve been giving it credit for. Maybe it’s hearing random phrases from Jane’s crime shows all this time, butNorm does seem to have the right kind of profile for a guy hiding a body in his bathtub.

He’s probably six feet tall, but it’s obvious he’s trying to make himself smaller by crouching low. Like he wants to disappear, or he’s afraid of being seen.

He takes a seat in a flaking pleather desk chair whose yellowed foam is trying to escape through the many cracks. He turns to face the giant monitor on the desk that’s covered in almost half a dozen glasses and bottles with varying amounts of liquid in them. He clicks his mouse. “I’ll be here if you need, um, anything,” he practically whispers, face red, before he crouches down, obscuring himself behind the chair’s back.

I take in the rest of the place. There’s an old living-room set featuring pink fabric with a golden wheat pattern that I’m pretty sure half the nation’s grandmas were issued in 1996. A bowl of potpourri sits at the center of the coffee table, almost as a joke, because the sour odor is making my stomach curl.

The desire to open a window overwhelms me. I search for some access to fresh air—then notice the sliding door to the patio has cardboard duct-taped across it, lest sunlight or anything joyful penetrate. Or to keep people from seeing the horrors that happen in here? Suddenly I feel a bit more grateful for the presence of the dickhead electrician.

Jamie clangs his toolbox down behind me and starts setting up shop in the corner near the ancient wall heater. The contents of the china cabinet in the corner rattle with his steps—flowery plates and tiny teacups and a bunch of porcelain trinkets shaped like wild birds and other shit that doesn’t fit the guy.

There’s nothing on the kitchen counter. No shoes lined up by the door. The throw pillows arranged on the sofa are so plentiful I doubt anyone has sat on it recently. I’m not convinced this guy ever leaves the chair he’s currently perched on unless it’s to accept takeout or take a shit. I glance his way again; behind the chair, Ican make out the top of his head and his rounded neck protruding as he leans over the monitor. He’s playing some “walking in a field with a bow and arrow” game.

I’m actually pretty worried that he’s got a glass bottle half full of pee right next to his computer. Or, more hopefully, apple juice.

Another unfortunate whiff of that odor hits my nose. It very hard to pin to one thing, and just when I think I’m getting used to it, a slightly mutated aftershock of the stink rolls in.

As Jamie moves to check the outlet above the kitchen counter, he announces, “Wow, I see what you meant about the odor in here. I couldn’t smell it from the hallway, but this place reeks in the kitchen.”

My stomach drops at the same time that Norm stiffens. I point to the back of Norm’s head before pressing a finger across my mouth indicating to Jamie that he needs to shut the fuck up. I thought by giving this guy a heads-up he could actnormalin here, not broadcast it like a sports announcer.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jamie dismisses me. “My cousin is a gamer, and the guy can’t hear his own farts with those on.” He motions around his ears to indicate the headphones that engulf Norm’s head, at the same time I notice Norm crouch farther into his chair, his knuckles going white against the armrests. He’s not holding his controller anymore.

“You think this guy has a dead rodent in his fridge?” Jamie continues.

We might be in the lair of a serial killer, and here Jamie is, goading him. Again I try to shut Jamie up by cutting him a shitty look. I twist my head back toward Norm, but he’s holding his remote again, the buttons clicking like he’s deeply immersed in the game. Maybe I imagined his reaction before, and he really can’t hear us.

I step closer toward the kitchen, experimentally sniffing at the air (a bad decision). Jamie has a point, unfortunately. The fridge is definitely the source. It looks perfectly clean from the outside. Myeyes snag on a curled sheet of paper posted on the door, a Canadian Pizza Unlimited magnet tacking it down for dear life.

It’s a letter of some kind. I step closer, keeping one eye on Norm. It’s the logo on the letterhead that that caught my attention. What is Norm doing with a letter from Westmore Communications, akamyworkplace?

Norm’s chair creaks and I practically jump out of my skin, stepping back from the fridge. He lets out a huff as he tugs off his headphones and rakes his hands across his forehead.

Without warning, his head turns and he catches me staring at him.

I should be the one startled, but his expression is like a lost baby deer. Then suddenly, it’s like he snaps back into himself, into this world, and looks down at his body like he’s seeing it for the first time.

“Mona, come here a sec,” Jamie calls. He’s moved on to the hall leading toward the bedroom.

I tear my eyes away from Norm and move down the completely barren hallway to where Jamie stands near the fuse box on the wall.

Jamie points at it with his thumb. “We need to change out a breaker in the box. None of the plugs in this hall are working. Can I go ahead and do it?”

I nod.

Without missing a beat, Jamie pulls a little light bulb device from his toolbox and plugs it into the hallway’s outlet. “I’ll be five minutes. Text me when that lights up.”