Page 16 of The Intruder

NOW

CASEY

When we get inside, the girl just stands there, hugging herself and dripping rain all over my floor. She doesn’t make a move to take off her coat. She just stares at me with those big blue eyes that seem to take up half her face.

“I’m Casey,” I tell her as I shake off my own coat, hoping she’ll reciprocate by either telling me her name or at least taking off her jacket.

She gives me a look. Yes, definitely a teenager. “I know. You told me.”

She doesn’t offer her own name. Fine—I can’t force her. She shakes out her hair, which is sopping wet. She also has a bunch of freckles spilling over the bridge of her nose that I never noticed before, but other than that, her face is deathly pale.

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.