Page 42 of The Intruder

I don’t want to answer her question. It depends entirely where the tree ends up falling, which depends entirely on the direction of the wind gust that knocks it over. If it falls in my yard, it will be a nuisance. If it falls on the house, it might kill us.

And earlier today, it was leaning toward the house.

“We can hide under the bed,” I say. “That should protect us.”

Or not. I honestly have no idea, and that terrifies me. I’m trying to act confident for Eleanor, but that tree is scaring the crap out of me.

Why oh why didn’t I go with Lee when he offered to let me come to his house? As far as I can remember, he did not have any giant trees threatening to fall on his house—he would be smarter than to put himself in this kind of situation. I could have been safe and sound in his living room right now. But no. I had to keep my boundaries.

Although if I had gone with Lee, Eleanor would have had to spend the night in that cold, wet toolshed, all alone.

“Let’s go back inside,” I say.

Okay, if that tree falls on us tonight, there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s nowhere else to go. It would be much more dangerous to attempt to get to Lee’s house at this point.

“I’ll get you some extra blankets,” I say to Eleanor. “The heat is out, so it’s going to get real cold in here.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I leave her to go to the hall closet to grab some blankets. Eleanor told me she was planning to take off first thing in the morning, but I don’t believe that anymore. She was carrying a map directing her to my house. She didn’t just coincidentally end up here. She came here for a reason.

I just don’t know what that reason is yet.

31

I give Eleanor an oversize T-shirt to sleep in so she doesn’t have to spend the night in a bloodstained hoodie. It was slightly large on me, but when she comes out of the bedroom, it looks like she’s wearing a nightgown. Her bare legs are protruding underneath, and they are so skinny, it makes me want to cry. I know teenage girls get eating disorders, but based on how she went to town on the spaghetti, I don’t believe that’s what this is. Somebody was responsible for feeding this girl, and whoever that person was, they dropped the ball.

I wonder what she’s been through. I wonder what brought her here. I wish she would trust me enough to talk to me.

She disappears into the bathroom again, and it suddenly hits me that she didn’t bring her backpack with her. She left it in the bedroom.

This is my chance.

I tiptoe into the bedroom as quickly as I possibly can. Her overstuffed backpack is leaning against the bed, that bloodstain still present on the side. The water turns on in the bathroom—she’s surely going to be in there for at least a few more minutes.

But I find myself hesitating. What if there really is something horrific inside? If I see a decapitated head in that bag, I will have nightmares for the rest of my life.

Moreover, I have been working hard to gain Eleanor’s trust. If she catches me rifling through her belongings, that trust will be gone in a split second, and I’ll have no chance of ever regaining it.

But at the same time, if there’s something terrible in that bag, I need to know what it is. And I need more information about Eleanor if I’m going to help her land safely on her feet after this storm is over. It’s not like I infinity promised I wouldn’t look.

I take one more quick peek at the bathroom. The door is still closed. It’s now or never.

My hands are shaking as I unzip the larger pouch. I feel a rush of relief when I discover that it is stuffed with clothes. It’s clothes—nothing more.

I start sifting through the clothes, searching for a phone or a wallet or anything that might have personal information. But as I dig deeper, I notice the clothes have more and more blood on them, and my hands are becoming wet with it. It seems strange until I discover the culprit:

A small washcloth, completely drenched in dark red liquid.

I haven’t gotten any more clues about what happened to Eleanor to bring her here tonight, but whatever it was, it was something bad. There’s no doubt in my mind.

I avoid touching the washcloth so I don’t get more blood on my hands. I zip up the larger pocket on the backpack and try the smaller pouch next. The first thing I see is that cigarette lighter she used to help me light the candles. I’m tempted to pocket it, but I don’t think she’s going to do much damage here with that thing. What I’d really like to get my hands on is that switchblade and check it for blood, but I don’t see it. She must’ve hidden it somewhere else in the room. Maybe she keeps it within arms’ reach at all times.

The only other thing stuffed in the bottom of the pouch is a green notebook, which is damp but readable. I pull it out, and I’m about to crack it open when I hear a voice call from the bathroom, “Casey?”

As quickly as I can, I zip her backpack up again, but I don’t put the notebook back. I dart back into the living room and stuff it under the cushions of the sofa, just as Eleanor pops her head out of the bathroom.

“Casey?” she says again.