Page 21 of The Intruder

In the light of the cabin, the blood on her clothes is even more terrifying. The dark red stains the entire front of her shirt and splatters all over her blue jeans. It’s also on her palms, likely caked into the cracks and crevices.

But nothing on her face.

On top of that, she is drenched. Her coat appears to be hanging by the seams, with multiple buttons missing, and it doesn’t look like it closes completely. She’s not wearing boots, so her sneakers are completely waterlogged, and her jeans are soaked from the knees down. A considerable pink-tinged puddle is forming beneath her.

“Do you want a change of clothing?” I ask her.

For a moment, it looks like she’s considering it. But then she shakes her head no. She still isn’t making a move to take off her coat. But she does retract the blade on her knife and places it in her pocket, which helps me breathe easier.

“At least let me get you some slippers,” I say, “so you can take off your wet sneakers.”

Before she can protest, I go into my closet and pull out the fuzziest, most comfy-looking slippers I’ve got. I place them down in front of the girl, and after a moment of contemplation, she sits down on the floor and peels off her soaking wet sneakers and socks. Her feet are very small and delicate, completely dwarfed by my size 7 slippers.

I look at her, waiting for her to say thank you or something along those lines, but she does not. It’s fine though. I whisk away her sneakers and store them in my closet. I wish I had a dryer I could throw her clothes into, but I dry my clothes by hanging them on a clothesline.

I duck into the living room to grab my own slippers, which I left in there (a necessity when living in a drafty cabin). When I brush by my phone, a look of panic fills the girl’s face. “You told me you wouldn’t tell anyone I’m here!”

“I’m not,” I assure her. It feels like I’m talking to a wild animal. “I’m just getting my own slippers. I promise.” She looks like she doesn’t believe me. She’s about two seconds away from running out of the house in my fuzzy slippers, so I add, “The phone lines are out anyway.”

Finally, she relaxes. I don’t know what she’s doing here or whose blood she is covered in, but it’s very clear that she does not want to be found. I will keep her secret—for now.

But even though she’s not as young as I thought she was, she is clearly a minor. She must have some sort of parent or guardian in charge of her. Yet I have been listening to the radio all afternoon for storm updates, and I did not hear an Amber Alert. Is it possible that her caregivers haven’t noticed her missing yet? It seems unlikely they wouldn’t be concerned about her whereabouts during a violent storm.

And who on earth does all that blood belong to?

“Um,” she says in a small voice, “you said there’s…food?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “Over this way. I just need to boil the pasta.”

I take a moment to grab a mop to clean up the puddle the girl left behind in my living room. After I take care of that, I lead her into my kitchen, where I have a small table with two chairs set up in front of it. To date, I have only ever used one of the two chairs. Even Lee has never eaten here.

I point to the sink. “You might want to wash your hands.”

She obediently runs her hands under the tap, and the blood staining her fingers and palms runs down the drain. She uses some of the soap, and when she’s done, her hands are pink and clean.

She settles down in the chair facing the front door, perching at the edge of the seat, like she might need to take off at any second to make a run for it.

After I get the water boiling and the pasta is cooking, I leave the girl to go into my bedroom. I replace my Glock at the bottom of my dresser, below all my folded shirts. I don’t think I’m going to be needing that tonight. Then I enter my narrow closet and pull out my warmest, fuzziest tan sweater for the girl to wear.

As I’m coming out of the bedroom, I nearly trip over her backpack, which is in the middle of my living room. It’s a light pink bag, which looks like the kind of discount backpack you’d get at Walmart. I don’t know what’s inside, but it’s stuffed in there so tightly that the zipper is straining. And then just on the side of the backpack, I see it:

Blood seeping through the cheap material.

17

My heart stops. What’s inside that backpack? Or a better question: What is leaking blood inside that backpack?

“Casey? Casey, the water is boiling over!”

I tear my eyes away and push away a wave of queasiness. I return to the kitchen and quickly turn down the heat on the stove until the pot stops bubbling over. After that’s under control, I remember the fuzzy sweater I brought out. I don’t say anything, but I put it down on the chair next to her.

She frowns. She glances between me and that warm sweater. She has got to be incredibly uncomfortable in her wet coat. It must be tempting.

I focus my own attention back on the spaghetti. It’s been boiling for ten minutes, as per the instructions on the box, although my father used to say the directions on the box were never right. The only way to know if spaghetti is cooked is to throw it at the wall, he used to say.

So that’s what we would do. He’d extract a strand of pasta from the boiling water, and I’d toss it at the wall. If it stuck, the spaghetti was cooked. If not, it was still fun to throw food. My dad had a way of making little moments special.

I do that now. I toss the single strand of spaghetti at my kitchen cabinet, and it immediately clings to the surface. When I look over my shoulder, the girl is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. It makes me wonder if she ever had anyone teach her when pasta is done or how to be a little silly.