Page 64 of The Intruder

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.

46

I spend the next two hours waiting for Eleanor to return.

Two hours of struggling against the duct tape, hoping to loosen its grip on my wrists just enough to get free. I work up a sweat in the process, even though the cabin is cold, but no luck. My wrists and shoulders are throbbing, but my wrists are as tightly bound as they were two hours ago. She did a damn good job taping me up.

The storm has finally settled down. It’s still raining, but the wind has died down considerably. The power is still out, and I imagine the phone lines are too, but if I had my arms or legs free, I could easily make a run for it.

Instead I am being held hostage here. And I still have no idea what Eleanor has planned for me.

Well, I have some idea.

At some point today, Lee will surely come by to check on me. He’ll worry that the roof got blown off or that the giant tree landed on my house, and he’ll walk over here to make sure I’m okay. I wish I had taken him up on his offer to stay at his house last night. I can’t believe I thought he was the bad guy when there was something much worse waiting for me. Then again, if I had gone to Lee’s house, Eleanor would have spent the night in the shed, and that tree would have killed her when it fell. Even after everything she did to me, I don’t feel good thinking about that turn of events.

Anyway, given the sun still hasn’t come up, it will be a long time before Lee comes looking for me. If I had to guess, I would say it’s around five in the morning. It could be five or six more hours before he thinks to stop by here.

And then I hear the doorknob to the bedroom door turning.

The fireplace has gone dark, but a few of the candles are still flickering and the sky has cleared enough that the window provides some light. Eleanor emerges from the bedroom, fully dressed and wearing her coat, her red hair pulled into a ponytail, her backpack on her shoulder. And in her right hand is the switchblade, with the blade extended.

“Hello, Casey,” she says.

I stare at her. I don’t know whether to be furious that she kept me tied up here all night or terrified about what she is going to do next. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck—terrified it is. “Where’s my gun?”

“I have it,” she tells me. “I’m sorry, but I need it.”

At least she isn’t pointing it at me.

I stare down at the knife clutched in her right hand. The sight of it sends a chill down my spine. Every time I close my eyes, I see that drawing in her notebook. The woman duct-taped to the chair, being tortured—dismembered—while still alive.

“What are you going to do?” I ask hoarsely.

“I told you.” Her blue eyes meet mine. “I’m going to make sure justice has been served.”

She drops her backpack on the floor with a loud thump, then walks toward me.

Panic swells in my chest. “No. No. Please don’t do this.”

“Casey,” she says, “where is my notebook?”