Page 23 of The Intruder

“Oreos?” I ask.

After a long silence, she says, “I really like double chocolate chip.”

We have added six words to the number she has said to me. It feels like a miracle. “I love those too!”

The tiniest smile touches her lips. “Do you have any?”

“No, but I can buy some for you when the storm calms down tomorrow.”

I can see the walls shutting down. I finally got her to open up a tiny bit, but now she’s turning defensive again. “No. I’m leaving in the morning.”

“And where are you going?”

She lifts her chin, flecked with a bit of red sauce. “That’s none of your business.”

Yes, definitely a teenager.

There’s a ribbon tied around the tin with a little card hanging off it. She taps open the card with her fingertip and reads the message inside, “Dear Casey, happy birthday. Lee. Who is Lee?”

“A friend.”

She raises an eyebrow. “A boyfriend?”

“No, not a boyfriend.”

“Then why did he get you a box of cookies?”

“Because that’s what friends do. They buy each other birthday presents.”

She takes a thoughtful bite of one of the cookies as the wind rattles the kitchen windows. “These are really good. They taste expensive.”

“Maybe.” I have no idea how much Lee paid for them, although they do look awfully fancy. But it’s not like it’s jewelry. It’s just cookies! How much could they have possibly cost?

Eleanor polishes off another one and then licks crumbs off her fingers. “My mom said that a boy will never do anything nice for you unless he’s interested in you.”

So there is a mother involved. A mother who is apparently not looking for her. “That’s not true.”

“Does he live nearby?”

“Yes. Just up the road. There’s a path through the woods that leads right to his house.”

“Is he married?”

“No.”

“Does he have kids?”

“No.” Although now that I think of it, I don’t know for sure that Lee doesn’t have a child. I never bothered to ask. “I mean, he hasn’t mentioned any.”

“Is he gross?”

“No!”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s, uh…” I don’t know why I am indulging in this conversation, but I just want to get her talking, even if she’s picking on me about my love life. I don’t mind. When I was teaching, my students used to ask me teasing questions about whether I had a boyfriend. “He’s about six feet tall.”

“Does he have a mustache or beard?”