Page 17 of The Intruder

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.

As I’m draining the pasta in the sink, she shakes off her coat.

She hangs it carefully on the back of the chair, and then she takes off her hoodie as well.

I pretend like I’m not watching, but I notice she’s wearing only a T-shirt under her hoodie.

And her bare arms are scarred with small white circles.

Old cigarette burns.

My jaw tightens, but I don’t comment. Now I understand why this girl does not want to be found. Although it doesn’t entirely explain why nobody is looking for her.

Though the blood might explain that.

I pile spaghetti and sauce onto a large plate for my guest, and I make myself a much smaller portion.

I lay the plate down in front of her, and even before it hits the table, she is shoveling noodles into her mouth.

It’s hard to imagine she’s even taking time to chew.

I twirl some around my spoon, just watching her eat.

“So,” I say, “what brings you out here?”

She doesn’t even look up from her plate. She clearly isn’t excited to answer, and I haven’t even asked her the biggest questions on my mind. For example, why is she covered in blood? Whose blood is it? And what is in the backpack? But one thing at a time. I have to build trust—small steps.

“You don’t see too many people out in the woods in New Hampshire,” I go on. “We’re pretty far off the main road, you know?”

No answer. I think this girl has said fewer than ten words to me since I discovered her in the shed.

“Do you live near here?” I try again.

She finishes her pasta, slurping up those last few strands of spaghetti. She looks down at the plate longingly.

“Do you want a little more?” I ask.

She nods quickly.

I’ve got a few more scoops in the pot, so I pour that onto her plate, and I also grab some bread from the refrigerator to sop up the extra sauce. I place it down in front of her, and she continues eating with gusto.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say to fill the silence.

I decide not to bother her while she’s eating. A lot of animals don’t like to be disturbed when they’re in the middle of a meal, and right now, I’m going to put this girl into that category. I will let her eat—she’s obviously starving.

But at the same time, I can’t let this go.

She has clearly been abused, and this girl is not a battered woman running from her husband.

This is a child. I can’t allow her to leave here on her own without adult supervision.

As a teacher, I was a mandated reporter of signs of abuse, but even though I’m no longer in that role, I still feel that same tug of responsibility.

The next random adult she comes across might not be so nice, and she is a target for predators with no way to earn money.

This girl needs help. A person in authority needs to be alerted to what was done to her.

And also, I really want to know who that blood belongs to.

As if reading my thoughts, the girl reaches into the pocket of the coat she removed and pulls out the switchblade. Although she doesn’t extend the blade again, she wraps her fingers around it and holds it in her lap while continuing to eat with her other hand.

I notice there’s a word scribbled on the handle of the knife in permanent marker. I try to see around her fingers gripping the handle, but it’s challenging. I can make out an E, then an L, then…

I think it might be her name.

She releases the handle of the knife for a split second to wipe her chin, and it’s long enough for me to see what’s written on it. E-L-E-A-N-O-R.

“Is your name Eleanor?” I ask her.

She glares at me like Rumpelstiltskin must have when they discovered his name. But she doesn’t deny it. “Nobody calls me by my full name,” she says bitterly. “I hate that name.”

“Well, what do they call you?”

She doesn’t answer, but at least I’ve got something. I’ve got a first name to tell the police when the phone lines start working again.