Page 13 of The Intruder

Why didn’t I ask Lee to look in the shed? Why did I let my stupid pride get in my way? There’s no chance he’s going to come back here now—not when the rain is coming down hard and the wind is picking up.

I squint out the window, trying to make out the silhouette of somebody inside. There’s only that small window, which is how I can see the light, but I can’t see the shadow of a person moving around inside.

But there’s someone in there. There has to be.

I have to call the police. It seems overdramatic, considering they surely have other more important things to deal with during a big storm, but if there’s an intruder on my property, I have the right to call them. I don’t know what the intruder wants or what they will do to me, especially once the power goes out, so better safe than sorry.

No, I definitely need to call the police.

But wait. I can’t. The phones are out. That means I can’t call Lee, and I can’t call the police. I can’t call anyone.

I square my shoulders and back across the room toward the light switch, keeping one eye on the window. It’s hard to see much with the kitchen illuminated, but if I turn off the lights, I’ll have a better view of the shed.

I flick the lights off, plunging my kitchen into darkness, then return to the window. With the improved visibility, there’s no doubt at all that there’s a light shining from within the shed. But of course, that’s no guarantee that the intruder is still in there. For all I know, they are standing at my front door right now. I imagine a giant, burly man waiting at the door, an axe in his fist. (Apparently, I believe Paul Bunyan has been hiding in my toolshed.)

I’m not trapped here though. I’ve got my truck. For a moment, I’m tempted to make a run for it and start driving in the direction of the nearest town. Yes, the roads are going to be a disaster, but it’s better than being a sitting duck. I’ve already got a questionable roof, and now there’s an intruder lurking outside my cabin. I might be better off searching for a hotel—there’s got to be someplace with an available room. Or maybe they’ll let me sleep on a sofa in the lobby.

And then in the morning, I can deal with whoever is hiding out there. If they decide to break into my cabin, so be it. I have nothing of value here.

Yet why should I? This is my house. My property. Why should I be forced out because of somebody trespassing?

That said, I’ll never sleep through the night knowing there is a stranger out there.

For all I know, they are completely harmless. Maybe it’s just a drifter looking for a place to camp out during the storm. Maybe it’s… Well, I already decided it can’t be a rabbit or deer because of the light and all that. But my point is it doesn’t have to be an axe murderer.

I’ve made a decision.

I’m going to go out to the toolshed and see what’s inside.

10

BEFORE

ELLA

Smella! Hey, Smella!”

As I walk past Anton Peterson in the cafeteria, I get to hear the super clever nickname he has devised for me. Smella. You know, because my name is Ella? Really, he should get a job working for a comedy show. His talents are wasted here.

At least now I’ve got a bag of lunch instead of air.

“Hey, Smella.” Anton stands up from where he’s sitting at a long table with some of his loser friends. He blocks my path to the empty table I was angling for. “What’s your rush?”

I shrug, refusing to look away. Anton is a jerk, but he doesn’t scare me.

“We were just wondering…” He glances over at his friends, who are snickering. “Do you ever shower?”

The possibility that Anton might be right—I really do smell and it’s not just a clever wordplay—flits through my head. I shower every single night, honestly. But the problem is our washer in the basement went on the fritz almost a year ago, and my mom won’t tell anyone that it’s broken because she doesn’t want them to come into our house to repair it. She keeps saying she’s going to fix it herself, but I don’t know how because she’s not good with tools. For a while, she just kept buying new clothing, but that’s not, like, a permanent solution.

There’s a laundromat, but it’s not that close. Maybe a two-mile walk. Still, a few times, I stuffed a bunch of clothing into a sack and sat in the laundromat for two hours until my stuff was clean. I would walk over there more often, but I don’t have money for the machines.

So because of all that, the jeans and long-sleeved shirt that I’m wearing have already been worn without being washed. Four times. I did do my best to air them out, but airing things out in my house is not that easy.

Anyway, I don’t dignify Anton’s question with an answer. Although as I stare up at him, I have to resist the urge to sniff myself.

“You should try washing yourself sometime, Smella,” he says. His eyes drop to the logo on my shirt. “It won’t take you too long, since you don’t have any tits to wash.”

I nod my head down at the fly of his jeans. “I bet it doesn’t take you very long then either.”