Page 43 of The Intruder

I want you to go to your pantry,” Eleanor says to me, “and get out the roll of duct tape.”

At the mention of duct tape, my legs turn to liquid. Nothing good can come of giving this girl a roll of duct tape. If she had asked me if I had it, I would’ve lied and said no. She must’ve seen it.

I wish I had never bought that stupid duct tape. Of course, what kind of person doesn’t keep a roll of it in their pantry? I’m not a housewife from Beverly Hills.

In any case, I do what she tells me to do. I grab the tape, then I turn around to hand it to her.

Eleanor is at least a head shorter than me, and I’m not exactly tall.

She has to tilt her head up to look at me, and her blue eyes seem gigantic on her face, which is very pale except for the freckles on her nose.

She has a slightly pointed chin and a delicate nose, all of which make her look more like a pixie than a killer.

If I hadn’t seen the telltale blood, I’d never believe she was capable of hurting a fly.

“Sit on that chair in the kitchen,” she instructs me.

Oh no. She’s going to bind me to the chair.

I flash back to one of the drawings in her notebook. It was this exact scene. Me—duct-taped to a chair. But that wasn’t all.

In the drawing, I was bound to the chair and bleeding from the side of my head, where my ear had been sliced clear off. There was also blood running down my lips and a bloody hole where my right eye should have been.

I gave Eleanor the gun to make this happen.

“No,” I gasp. “Please don’t do this. Please.”

She shakes the Glock, pointing it directly at my face. “I said sit.”

I almost consider going for the gun—getting shot might be preferable to living out the scene in that drawing. But I can’t make myself do it. I’d rather buy time.

I sit down in the chair, my hands clasped in my lap. But she shakes her head. “Behind your back,” she says.

Damn. I was hoping she would bind my wrists in front of me. But Eleanor still has the gun pointed at my head, so I’m not in any position to say no. I try to keep my wrists as far apart as I can, hoping I can wriggle out later.

It occurs to me that now might be my only chance to escape. There’s no way Eleanor can bind my wrists while holding the gun—at least I don’t think so. I can try to turn around and wrangle the gun away from her. But what if she shoots me? Or even worse, what if I end up accidentally shooting her?

No, I can’t risk it.

Once my wrists are bound, I realize how helpless I’ve become.

She can do whatever she wants to me, and I can’t do a damn thing.

Even worse, the next thing she does is bind my ankles, which she then secures to the legs of the chair.

And then she puts one more piece all the way around my chest. I am basically glued to the chair now.

Why oh why did I buy a fresh roll of duct tape last week?

I curse myself for always being so dang prepared.

The only positive thing I can say is that she doesn’t put any tape over my mouth. But why should she? If I screamed out here, nobody would hear. Even Lee is much too far away to save me at this point.

When Eleanor is done, she steps back to admire her handiwork. “Try to get free.”

I stare at her. “I can’t.”

She squints at me like she’s not quite sure. But finally, she nods and lowers the gun. “Good.”

The candles in the kitchen have burned nearly half of the way down—it must be two or three in the morning—but I can still see the features of her face, which look even more menacing, partially obscured by the shadows.

I can’t stop thinking about that drawing.

The woman bound to the chair, bleeding from her missing ear and her gouged-out eye.

I can’t let that happen to me.

But what can I do? I can’t move.

“Please,” I whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

Eleanor looks at me, cocking her head. “It’s nothing personal.”

Nothing personal? She targeted me. She came to my house from God knows where, and she’s carrying a notebook full of horrible pictures of me. How could that not be personal? “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“I said it’s not personal.” She sounds irritated. “Okay?”

I don’t know what she’s talking about. The only way it could not be personal is if she is some sort of hired killer.

And I really don’t think this little girl is being paid to be here.

The only reason I’m in this position at all is because I was stupid enough to invite her inside and give her a gun.

“I’ll be back,” Eleanor tells me.

Oh no. She’s getting her knife.