The Intruder

“Can you keep a secret?” she asked.

I bet she didn’t expect to find me asleep at 7:12 AM, naked in my bed, somewhere between being drunk and hungover. I was a father of three, for God's sake, happily married and responsibly managing a team of 9 highly-paid engineers. But this was the morning after my family day off, I was in dare need of coffee and would have traded my soul for another hour of sleep. 

Now, in spite of my desperate state, I was trying to make my head work. I felt like a college kid caught without homework.   

“Hmm… Can you repeat that? There’s a problem with my connection.” I knew she’s not going to buy it. It was the landline after all.

I could feel her roll her eyes.

“Can.  you.  keep.  a secret?” she repeated, very slowly this time.

We haven’t spoken in ages. Not because we didn’t get along, but rather cause we never quite got to develop a proper brother-sister relationship. She always blamed me for treating her like a little girl, and she was a bit too eager to prove herself, with a generous pinch of stubbornness. And while the tension was justified, and each of us had good reasons to keep the distance, it just brought us in a lose-lose situation. 

“I’ll be with you in an hour, works?” 

“OK" she said, and hung up

Fifteen minutes later, caffeinated and showered, I looked and felt more like a human being. As my mind was slowly coming to life again, I was getting increasingly confused. The  more I played the conversation in my head, the weirder it got. She never called my landline before. Actually, I was not even aware that it still worked. Also, the conversation was utterly impolite for her: Evie never skipped the small talk. And she wasn’t into secrets either.

I jumped into the bus for what was going to be three quarters of an hour of pure pain. I discovered that my buttocks were very sore and the trip made it way worse. Apparently, I wasn’t alone last night and woke up naked for a reason. A smile crossed my lips.

The lack of proper clothing for this cold was not making my trip any more enjoyable. It was a November morning and I wasn’t even wearing a jacket. Instead I got a T-shirt and pants from my wife’s “to iron” pile, which gave me a touch of homelessness, combined with the muddy sneakers from yesterday. I’m totally going to give the impression of a supportive older brother, I thought, and shook my head. My hungover played nicely into the overall image (or lack thereof) that I was projecting that day.

I got there to find my sister waiting in the door frame, pale, thin, her eyes deeply red. She hasn’t been sleeping last night, either, but she didn’t seem to have enjoyed herself too much. Her hand showed me in, but she didn’t say a word. Her gaze was flat, her face - expressionless. The setup was simply reeking with trouble.

The room looked like it always did: her working setup in a corner, the couch, the book shelf, the dining table with the traditional flower vase with chrysanthemums in. Clean, minimalist, well organized. In spite of all the time she spent indoors, you could barely see a proof of usage on any item. It was as if she was dedicated to erasing any evidence of her existence.  

I realized that I walked in without taking my shoes off, and I was making a mess, but she didn’t seem to care. My list of things that were unlike her was growing by the second. My alarm bells rang wildly and my neck tensed.

“There is a body on the kitchen floor.” she said at last, barely being able to push the words out. They sounded blank and heavy like the overcooked meatballs grandma used to make. I could feel the tension in my neck flowing downwards into my upper back. A body. A dead body.

I sat on the sofa, and took a couple of deep breaths. It looked like she was waiting for that.

“I checked his pulse”, she carried on. “I’m sure that when I found him this morning, he was dead.”

“Who is he?”

“I have no idea. I don’t recognize him”

“Didn’t you check his ID at least?”

“He didn’t have it on him. His pockets were mostly empty. I found a lighter, his phone and the key. The key from here.” This was going from terrible to sinister in a matter of minutes.

I got distracted for a second by a crow in the balcony, picking on the flower pots. It was then that I noticed that she had an ashtray and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes there. It was the best that happened to me that day. As an older brother, I should have probably scolded her for picking up smoking again, but she couldn’t have chosen a better time to buy that pack.

    She seemed to have read my mind. We went outside, sat side by side and lit up. I took a long drag. I knew I had to go and see it on my own, but I needed five more minutes. So I decided to snooze that body in the kitchen like I do with the alarm in the mornings. 

“I was alone last night” she started all of a sudden. I had forgotten she was there. 

“Went to bed, but then, in the middle of the night, I had the feeling that there was something foreign in the flat. You know, like when you have something in your eye, that you can’t quite see, nor remove, but you just can’t ignore it. I turned all the lights on and searched the entire place, but I was alone, and everything was just as I left it.” She stopped to exhale the smoke and shake off the ashes.

“Everything except a cup in the sink. I couldn’t have left it there. We both know that.” She made another break, for emphasis, as if trying to convince herself of what she had just said.

“I tried, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I knew rationally that no one was there, but it wasn’t helping. I tossed and turned for an hour and then gave up and decided to have tea and read instead. It was then that I walked into the kitchen and found him, on the floor, staring at the countertop. I have no clue how he walked in, where he got the key and how he died.”

She was silent for a long time, I didn’t know what to say either. While I was pretty sure she wasn’t lying, there were big gaps in the story. I could hardly imagine someone breaking in and dying in my two-room apartment without me noticing. But at the same time, if she was lying, she could have made up a better story.

“Why haven’t you called the police, Evie?”

“I didn’t know what to say. It’s not like they were going to buy my story. I wouldn’t buy it myself, to be honest.”

I couldn't come up with anything worth saying. Instead, I gave her a hug, like in the old days, when she was scared of the thunder. For a moment, she seemed so small and helpless. And a long forgotten feeling crawled out of my soul like a little baby: slowly, limping and falling, but determined. I knew I had to protect her. My little sister needed me and there was nothing else I wanted to do more than this.

“We’re gonna figure it out.” I told her. I knew we would.

My legs brought me to the kitchen door. I stopped, inhaled and exhaled deeply. My head was desperately looking for excuses to delay opening that door. My heart was about to leave my chest, my mouth was dry and I felt an unshakeable desire to smoke another cigarette. But I coaxed myself to grasp the doorknob. 

“I wish I knew what happened.” she said, looking at the floor. There was a mix of sorrow and confusion on her face. I didn’t know if I should feel relieved or even more worried. I hoped that our father’s condition would spare her, like it did with me. 

“There is no one there Evie. You’re seeing things.” I said. In hindsight, I could have chosen a milder wording, I should have looked for an euphemism or something. She gasped for air. 

“It’s going to be fine.” She shook her head in disbelief. 

“We’ve been through it more than once with dad. We know how it goes and we can beat it. We just need help.” 

I wrapped her in my arms and gave her a kiss on the forehead. It always calmed her when she was little, and it seemed to still work. I could feel her little body starting to relax.