Page 45 of The Intruder

NOW

CASEY

I’ve got to get out of these restraints.

Whatever Eleanor is doing in the bedroom, she is taking her sweet time.

It’s been about ten minutes, and I am still sitting here, waiting for her to come out and dismember me with her switchblade.

My heart is beating so violently, it almost hurts my chest. I might have a heart attack before she comes back out here.

Duct tape is possible to cut through. If I could locate something in my kitchen that is sharp that I could rub against, I could get my hands free. And once my hands are free, I’ll be able to get my legs free too.

Except how am I supposed to do that when I can’t even move?

I push my feet against the ground, testing to see if I could slide across the kitchen, but instead, the chair just tips backward. I quit pushing, scared that if I fall over, I could break my wrists.

I remember when I was a kid, my dad was repairing our sofa—with duct tape, of course. He loved the stuff. If I had gotten married, he would’ve made my wedding dress out of duct tape. (Or at the very least, if it had torn, he would’ve repaired it with tape.)

While he was taping together the sofa, he said to me, Do you want me to show you what to do if somebody ever binds your hands together with duct tape?

It’s not the sort of thing that most fathers would have spoken to their daughters about, but it was exactly the sort of thing my father would say to me.

I sat in a chair in our living room, and my father taped my wrists together tightly. He took a step back. Okay, try to get free.

I did try. I struggled with it for five minutes while he watched. By the end, I was sure that I was going to peel my skin off before I got myself loose. When he saw me getting frustrated, he stopped me.

The key is acceleration, Casey, he said.

If you bring your arms all the way up over your head and then bring them down as fast as possible against your rib cage, it breaks the tape. I tried it, and even though I was only fourteen years old—not much older than Eleanor—I successfully broke the tape on my first try. I was free.

Even though my wrists are bound behind me, maybe there’s still a way I can get free.

I stretch my arms out behind me as much as I can, even as my shoulders whine in protest. The key is acceleration, Casey. I take a deep breath, and with as much force as I can, I bring my wrists back against the chair while simultaneously pulling them apart.

A jolt of pain goes through my wrists, white hot and enough to make my eyes water. I have to just sit there for a moment, waiting for the pain signals to abate. I take deep breaths, trying not to panic. I will get free. I’m going to get free.

Then I try to separate my wrists, seeing if the tape has more give than before. It takes me less than a second to realize I’ve made no progress.

My eyes fill with frustrated tears, thinking about how my father taught me to free myself from this very situation, and if only my arms were bound in front of me instead of behind me, I could actually do it. But Eleanor has made absolutely certain that I can’t move. I can’t move. I’m trapped.

She is far smarter and crueler than she looks.

I think of the cigarette burns on her skinny arms as well as the bruises. I took the girl for a victim when I first saw her. But now I’m starting to wonder.

I’ve got to get out of here.