Page 11 of The Intruder

NOW

CASEY

According to the radio, winds are now gusting at thirty miles per hour, so I need to dress properly if I’m leaving the house.

I tug on my waterproof jacket as well as my boots.

These are not the girlie boots from DSW that I used to wear back when I was living in an apartment and gainfully employed; these are heavy galoshes that I can use to walk all the way to the shed without my feet getting waterlogged.

I consider bringing an umbrella, but I have a feeling that it will instantly be turned inside out and perhaps fly away the second I leave my cabin.

Between my coat and my boots, I should be able to stay…

well, not dry, but maybe slightly less than drenched.

And there’s one more thing I want to bring.

I enter my small bedroom, where the covers are neatly tucked under the mattress.

Every morning, I make my bed as if I’m expecting company at my remote cabin in the woods.

However, right now, I’m much more interested in the contents of my dresser.

I open the top drawer and sift through the folded shirts inside until my fingers close around the cold metal object underneath the stack.

It’s a gun.

It’s a Glock G43X, which the person in the store informed me is the most popular gun on the planet right now.

It’s lightweight and compact, fitting easily in my coat pocket.

When I moved out to the middle of nowhere, I figured I needed either a gun or a dog.

I didn’t feel like I was up for taking care of a dog, so I bought the Glock.

I know how to shoot. My father taught me. When I was a teenager, he said to me, A girl’s got to know how to shoot. Then he drove me to a firing range so we could practice with his rifle.

The first time I held the gun in my hand, I was shaking like a leaf.

I didn’t hit the red bull’s-eye. I missed the target completely.

But my father was patient about it. He explained about the proper stance, keeping my grip high and tight, and lining up my sights.

After going to the firing range for a few months, I was able to hit that red bull’s-eye every time.

I thought once I got good at shooting, he’d take me hunting. But my father was never interested in hunting.

Now, so many years later, those years of training have come in handy. If there were an intruder on my property, I would be able to defend myself, thanks to what my father taught me. If I’m going to investigate, I feel secure having it in my pocket.

And now I’m ready to go.

The wind has picked up considerable strength. The trees are shaking, and I hear the wind whistling as it passes through the cracks in the window frame. I just have to hope it’s not strong enough to blow me away.

As soon as I open the door, I feel the full impact of the storm.

The wind comes at me hard, thrashing me in the face with cold droplets of water.

An umbrella would definitely be useless.

I’m the only idiot outside in a storm like this, but I don’t have much of a choice.

It’s either this or spend the night awake, staring out the window at the toolshed, with a gun nuzzled under my pillow.

There’s something else making me nervous too.

That large tree planted right next to the cabin—the one I pointed out to Rudy—is swaying a frightening amount. It was never stable, but it seems to tilt about forty-five degrees with each gust of wind. Except I can’t think about that right now. One problem at a time.

At some point between when I first spotted the light and right now, the light has gone out. I’m hoping this means that whoever was in the toolshed has now left, but more likely, it means that they turned out the light to conceal their presence. Fortunately, I have a flashlight of my own.

However, I make the decision to keep the flashlight off as I make my way across my yard to the shed, fighting the strong wind with each step.

The darkness will conceal me and perhaps give me the element of surprise.

Of course, if there is an axe-wielding maniac in my toolshed, the element of surprise might not help me much.

That’s why I have the gun.

My boots squish into the mud with each step. When I get a few feet away from the shed, I reach into my right pocket and close my hand around the handle of the gun to reassure myself. I stare, watching for signs of movement.

Aside from the rattling door, it is perfectly quiet and still.

I reach out to grab the handle of the door to the shed. Earlier this evening, I dumped the lawn mower in here as well as those stray branches. When I look inside, I’m hoping those are the only things I’ll see.

Before I can even reach the door handle, the wind whips the door all the way open.

After a brief struggle, I watch in surprise as the wind rips the door clear off its hinges.

It would be a more frightening display of the awesome power of nature if the hinges weren’t already on their last legs.

But the wind has definitively claimed the door, tossing it haphazardly into my lawn.

Okay then.

I step into the toolshed, the floorboards groaning under the weight of my boots. Despite the missing door, it’s dark inside. I blink a few times, trying to get my eyes to adjust. I don’t see anyone here, but I don’t see much at all. I’m going to need the flashlight.

It occurs to me that if there is somebody in here, their eyes have already had a chance to adjust to the dark.

Which means that while I am practically blind, they can see me perfectly.

They can do whatever they want before I even have a chance to reach for the gun in my pocket.

Thank God I’ve got my self-defense training—if some predator tries to attack me, I know what to do.

Still, I hate feeling so vulnerable in this small space.

“Hello?” I whisper.

No answer. Although if some gruff male voice had answered, I would have peed my pants.

I fumble for the flashlight in my pocket. Here we go.

I hit the button to turn it on, and finally, the shed is illuminated by comforting light. I can see the shadowy image of the lawn mower in the corner of the shed and that rusty old shovel. And one other thing.

A lump in the corner of the shed, concealed by a thin blanket.

I transfer the flashlight to my left hand so I can grasp the gun in my pocket with my right. If that lump does anything surprising, I’m pulling it out. “Hello?” I say again more firmly. This is my damn shed, and I’m going to defend it.

But again, there’s no answer.

This time, I shine my flashlight beam directly on the blanket. Something shifts underneath. “I know you’re under there,” I say.

As I stare at the lump, I realize how small it is. Whoever is under that blanket is not an axe-wielding giant. The person hiding in my toolshed is tiny. I loosen the death grip on my gun.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, more gently this time, addressing the lump directly. “But this shed is not a safe place for somebody to stay right now. Can you come out so we can talk? Please?”

No answer. The lump is very still now.

“Please,” I say again. “It’s not safe in here. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m just worried.”

It almost seems like it’s happening in slow motion, but very gradually, the blanket lowers, and I can make out a pair of blue eyes peering back at me. A second later, I can see the red hair, then the coat and the gray hoodie. It takes me another second to realize what I’m looking at.

It’s a girl.

And she’s holding a knife.