Page 39 of The Intruder

“What are you doing?” I scream. “Why would you lock him in there? That’s horrible! You’re horrible!”

Anton stares at me with his mouth hanging open as I reach for the doorknob to the closet, wrenching it with all my might. But it’s no use—it’s locked.

Instead, I grab Anton’s arm, trying to get the key away from him. “You have to let him out!”

“Ella…”

“Let him out right now!” I shriek. The key is enclosed in his fist, and I grab his fingers, trying to pry them open.

Anton holds it out of reach, keeping his other hand on my shoulder. “Ella, Ella, calm down, okay?”

“You just locked your brother in the closet!” I’m close to tears. How could Anton do something like that to a little boy? “You can’t do that! It’s not right!”

“He likes it though.” Anton nods at the closet door. “I would never hurt him—he’s my brother. This is just a game we play. I taught him to pick locks, so he can get out any time he wants.”

“You…you what?”

“I taught him to pick locks.” He shrugs. “It’s a useful skill to know.”

As if on cue, the door to the closet pops open, and Brad looks incredibly proud of himself as he darts back into the room, and they high-five each other. After another minute of coaxing while Brad peppers him with questions, Anton manages to get him to leave the room with the promise of playing Nintendo later.

I, on the other hand, can’t stop shaking. Even though it wasn’t happening to me, it was somehow almost worse to see that little boy trapped. It happens to other kids too. Plus, Anton probably thinks I’m nutso the way I was screaming.

Although there’s one thing that keeps sticking in my head.

“You know how to pick locks?” I ask Anton.

“Of course,” he says, like that was a super stupid question.

“Can you show me?”

29

Anton is really excited to teach me how to pick a lock.

“It’s easy,” he says. “All you need is a paper clip. Especially if it’s an old, crappy lock.” This time, I sit beside him on his bed while he shows me how to straighten out the paper clip, except it can’t be completely straight, he explains. “You want the end of it to be bent so you can push on the binding pin.”

“The binding pin?”

He nods eagerly. “That’s the first pin in the lock that stops the lock from turning.”

Anton explains that what you need to do is picture the interior of the lock and how it works. As he explains it to me, it’s hard to imagine this is the same kid who could barely scribble out a page of notes on igneous rocks. but one thing is obvious: Anton is a smart guy. Smarter than I gave him credit for.

“So,” he says when he finishes his long-winded explanation, “want to try it?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

We practice it with the closet door open. Anton locks one side of the door, then he shows me how to pop the lock. He makes it look so easy—he has it open in seconds. But when I give it a try, it’s a lot harder. He keeps telling me I need to feel for the pin, and I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m starting to get frustrated, and just when I’m about to tell him that I give up, the lock pops open.

“Nice job!” Anton holds up his hand, and I high-five him. “Okay, now try it again without me telling you what to do.”

I try it two more times, and by the third time, I feel like I’ve got the hang of it. I’m able to get it open in less than five minutes, which feels like a miracle.

“Now,” Anton says, “we have to try it with the door closed. It’s different that way, so you need to get a feel for that.”

I freeze, my fingers wrapped around the paper clip. “How do we do that?”

“You go into the closet, I lock the door, and then you get out.”