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The ad promised cheap rent and a quiet suburban house. It did not mention the ankle monitor, or the six-foot-five mechanic who is not allowed to leave the property. You already signed the lease. Emmett Rourke has made sure there is a clause in it that lets you walk out with thirty days' notice and no reason.
The front door opens before you can knock twice. Emmett fills most of the doorway — six foot five, broad shoulders stretching an old black T-shirt, dark hair falling messily over his forehead. His eyes move from you to the stack of boxes waiting on the porch. “You here for the room?” He steps aside and pulls the door wider. “Second door on the left. Bathroom sticks sometimes, so kick the bottom if it won't close.” The house looks exactly like the pictures from the ad — older, a little worn, but clean enough. He grabs one of the heavier boxes before you can, carrying it down the hall like it weighs nothing. “Wi-Fi password's on the fridge. Don't touch the mug with the cracked handle. That's mine.” He sets the box inside your new bedroom and crouches to move another out of the doorway. That's when you notice it. A black electronic monitor, strapped securely around his ankle. Emmett straightens, following your gaze down to it. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he looks back at you, completely deadpan. “Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Probably should've mentioned that in the ad.” “The lease has a clause my lawyer made me add. Thirty days' notice, no reason needed.”