Page 29 of The Intruder

Anton is really excited to teach me how to pick a lock.

“It’s easy,” he says. “All you need is a paper clip. Especially if it’s an old, crappy lock.

” This time, I sit beside him on his bed while he shows me how to straighten out the paper clip, except it can’t be completely straight, he explains.

“You want the end of it to be bent so you can push on the binding pin.”

“The binding pin?”

He nods eagerly. “That’s the first pin in the lock that stops the lock from turning.”

Anton explains that what you need to do is picture the interior of the lock and how it works.

As he explains it to me, it’s hard to imagine this is the same kid who could barely scribble out a page of notes on igneous rocks.

but one thing is obvious: Anton is a smart guy. Smarter than I gave him credit for.

“So,” he says when he finishes his long-winded explanation, “want to try it?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

We practice it with the closet door open.

Anton locks one side of the door, then he shows me how to pop the lock.

He makes it look so easy—he has it open in seconds.

But when I give it a try, it’s a lot harder.

He keeps telling me I need to feel for the pin, and I have no idea what he’s talking about.

I’m starting to get frustrated, and just when I’m about to tell him that I give up, the lock pops open.

“Nice job!” Anton holds up his hand, and I high-five him. “Okay, now try it again without me telling you what to do.”

I try it two more times, and by the third time, I feel like I’ve got the hang of it. I’m able to get it open in less than five minutes, which feels like a miracle.

“Now,” Anton says, “we have to try it with the door closed. It’s different that way, so you need to get a feel for that.”

I freeze, my fingers wrapped around the paper clip. “How do we do that?”

“You go into the closet, I lock the door, and then you get out.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not doing that.”

“But I showed you how to pick the lock. You should be able to—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Anton rubs his chin. “What if I got my little brother to lock the door, and I’ll stay in the closet with you?”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah, he’d be into helping. He’s got a crush on you or something.”

I’m not thrilled about this idea. I don’t want to voluntarily get locked in a closet after everything I’ve been through. Yet he’s right. If I want to learn how to do this, I have to do it all the way. It’s not a very useful skill if I can only pick a lock on an open door.

“Fine,” I agree. “Only if you’re with me.”

Even so, I’ve got this bad feeling in my chest when Anton and I get into the closet.

Same as in my hall closet, there’s a pull string to turn on the light, and just like in my closet, it’s still really dark.

But at least it isn’t full of junk. It’s mostly clothing and shoes.

And instead of rotting fruit, it smells like Anton—maybe his laundry detergent—which is not so bad.

Brad locks the door to the closet and then leaves us to it. The second I hear the lock turn, my stomach drops. A cold sweat breaks out on my palms. I try to stick the paper clip in the lock, but before I can even get it in, I drop it.

“Sorry,” I mumble as I fumble around the floor, searching for the tiny metal rod even though it’s hard to see what I’m doing.

Anton crouches down beside me and helps me look. It’s a tiny space, and his arm and knee keep bumping against me. He finds the clip first. He holds it up to the dim light, then hands it over to me. “Do it just like you did with the door open,” he says.

Easy for him to say.

My hands are so sweaty, I’m scared I’m going to drop the paper clip again. It’s a miracle when I manage to fit it into the hole. But my heart won’t stop beating quickly, and I’m having trouble focusing.

And then I start smelling something sweet and rancid.

Anton does not have any rotten peaches in his closet.

I know that. I have never smelled them before in his room, so I recognize this is all my imagination.

But it feels really real. It permeates my nostrils like the fruit is right in front of me.

And I feel that same panic that I feel when I’m in my closet at home. I start to gasp for air.

“I…I don’t think I can…” I pause to wipe my hands on my jeans. “I don’t think I can do this, Anton. I need to get out of here.”

“Ella.” Anton drops a hand onto my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. How is he so calm? “Don’t give up. You can do this. You just did it before. Three times.”

“No,” I whisper. “I can’t…”

“You can,” he insists. “You got this.”

“I don’t got this.”

“I swear, you do.” He squeezes my shoulder again. “Ella, you’re the most badass girl I know. You gave Devin a concussion and saved my ass. Because of you, my dad has been puking all week, and he poured his whiskey and bourbon down the drain. You can do this.”

He’s right—I did it before and I can do it again. Besides, I need to learn to help myself. It’s not like anyone is ever going to come rescue me.

Anton keeps giving me words of encouragement, and after another sixty seconds, I hear a click. The door to the closet is open. I can’t even believe it.

“You did it!” Anton cries.

At first, I think he’s going to give me another high five, and I’m waiting for it, but then he surprises me by throwing his arms around me.

I’m so surprised, I just stand there, stiff as a board, while I guess he’s hugging me.

My mom isn’t a hugger. I can’t even remember the last time she hugged me.

Maybe in his house, hugs are more normal?

Although looking at his mom and from what he has told me about his dad, I kind of doubt it.

Anyway, he quickly realizes he got carried away and backs off, his face all pink.

“Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have…”

“That’s okay.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “You did good.”

I can’t hold back my smile. “Thank you.”

I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe Anton taught me how to pick locks.

I have learned a lot of things in my life, including the difference between sedimentary and igneous rocks, but this is the first thing I have ever learned that I am certain will be extremely useful. Now, I know how to free myself.