Page 26 of The Intruder

NOW

CASEY

Without electricity, the cabin has become very dark.

I was dreading the moment when the lights went out, even though I had been expecting it for the entire evening. But I had previously imagined that when it happened, I would be able to curl up in my bed with one of my paperbacks, reading by the light of my Itty Bitty book light until I drifted off.

Instead, I am sitting in the kitchen of my house, alone with a girl who I am 99 percent sure has killed or at least mortally wounded somebody in the last twenty-four hours, and she’s feeling cornered, and we are sitting in pitch-blackness, the wind screaming through the cracks at the windows.

“Casey?” Eleanor’s voice floats through the darkness. A minute ago, I was feeling wary of her, but now her voice is tremulous. “The lights…”

“I’ve got candles,” I say with more calm than I’m feeling. “Let me light them.”

I curse the fact that I left my flashlight in the living room.

I am feeling my way to the kitchen counter when a slice of light illuminates my way.

I look over, and Eleanor is holding her flashlight.

It must be the same one I saw her with in the toolshed.

I get the drawer open and pull out a lighter; then I start igniting the candles one by one.

Eleanor stands up too. I would never have offered her a lighter, but apparently, she already had one. She uses her green lighter to light all the candles in the living room. I’m thrilled to know that this girl is in possession of an object that can set my house on fire.

It’s much better when all the candles are lit. It’s not as good as the overhead lights, but at least I can see my hand in front of my face. Also, I can walk across the kitchen without bumping into anything.

“Well, that’s better,” I say with false cheer. “Do you want to keep playing?”

“Actually,” she says, “I’m kind of tired. Is it okay if I go to sleep?”

Poor girl. I can’t even imagine what she’s been through today. I’m sure murdering someone is very exhausting. (No, I don’t actually think she killed anyone. But admittedly, I’m struggling to explain all that blood.)

“Of course you can rest,” I say softly. “Why don’t you lie down on my bed?”

Her blue eyes widen. “Your room?”

“Sure. I can sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

“I know, but I’d like you to have the bed. It’s a lot more comfortable.”

Eleanor looks between me and the bedroom, like she’s not quite sure what to make of this act of hospitality. Finally, she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

She thanked me. It’s a miracle.

I’m hoping she’ll leave her backpack behind in the living room so I can search it while she’s asleep, but of course, it’s the first thing she grabs when she goes into the bathroom, and I’m sure she’ll take it into the bedroom with her.

I have a feeling she’s not going to let that bag leave her side.

Is the bloodstain on the bag darker? I can’t tell.

I can’t help but think that it’s the perfect size to fit a human head. Or failing that, a hand or foot. Anything could be in there. I imagine opening the bag and finding a pair of dull, lifeless eyes staring up at me.

Or it could be something benign like clothing. Or books. Or drugs. At this point, I’d be thrilled to find drugs in there.

While Eleanor is gone, I work on getting the fire going. I’m hardly an expert, but my father showed me how to start a fire years ago, back when I was Eleanor’s age, and now I’m finally using that knowledge. He’d be proud.

Although maybe not so proud of the fact that I got fired from my job. God, I still can’t believe it all went down like that.

While I’m poking at the embers with the fire poker, I notice a scrap of paper on the floor. I’m certain it wasn’t here before—I would never leave a scrap of garbage lying around—which makes me think that it must’ve fallen out of Eleanor’s pocket.

Before she can come out and realize she’s dropped it, I pounce.

Once it’s in my hands, I identify it as a piece of lined paper, which looks like it was ripped out of a notebook.

The ink on the paper is slightly smudged from the rain, but it hasn’t run so much that I can’t read it anymore.

I look over the paper, examining the contents.

It’s a drawing, most likely scrawled by Eleanor herself.

And when I realize what I’m looking at, my jaw drops open.

This is much worse than I thought.