The Detour (10 page)

So I leaned my head back against the door, shut my eyes, and prayed for daylight. Everything would be better in the morning. Because there was certainly no way that things could get worse.

 

{11}

FINALLY, AT SOME
point, I drifted off. I didn't dream. When I woke, my body was stiff from sitting on the floor all night. I slowly got to my feet and ran the cold water, ducking my mouth under the spigot to take a long, long drink.

I ran a hand down my clothes on the towel rack. The underwear was mostly dry, but the leggings were drenched. Still, I didn't like being half-naked. I painstakingly put them on and shivered at the chill, wishing I could wear my sweater instead of using it for a sling.

The second I got rescued, I would gladly torch the whole freaking ensemble.

Upstairs, a door slammed. Then, voices.

I opened the bathroom door and peered out. All was as I'd left it.

I climbed onto the bed. Out the window, the tractor was still there, as was the diced ruin that used to be my red Audi. But there was something new.

Something blue was in front of the tractor. With one foot, I kicked the pillow over and stepped on top of it, giving myself another half an inch of height, hoping to increase my vantage point.

The back of a navy car. I could make out the tires, the wide yellow stripes that began above them and—

“Oh my God.” The only cars like that were …

State Patrol. The State Patrol was here!

Footsteps pounded, descending.

As quickly as I could, I dropped to my knees on the bed, wincing at the shot of pain. I quickly sat down and straightened out my legs, leaning against the head of the bed.

Click!

The door slammed open.

Mrs. Dixon practically snarled, “You need to go in the bathroom.”

I glanced over at the open bathroom door. “Why?”

She shook her head as she strode over to me. “You just need to.” She grabbed my good arm and pulled me to my feet. I tried to keep up, but I was weak. Since I wasn't going fast enough for her, she half dragged me until I stood in front of the bathroom sink.

I turned to her. “Why do—”

She yanked the door shut in my face. “Stay in there and be quiet, or I will hurt you.” Her footsteps receded, and the outside door slammed.

I sat down on the toilet. I could start screaming right then. Would it do any good? The thick concrete walls of the basement would prevent sound from reaching the front yard or wherever the cop was.

But then from inside the house came more voices. One was definitely deep enough to belong to a man.

I didn't care if Mrs. Dixon would hurt me; I had to take a chance. I yanked the door open and ran over to the basement door, pounding with my good hand. “Hey! Hey let me out!” I yelled as loud as I could, and then stopped to see if anyone came.

No one did.

I screamed, and then stopped to catch my breath.

Were those footsteps?

I ran back inside the bathroom and pushed the door shut.

A second later, the bathroom door opened so hard into me that I nearly fell. She shoved me farther back into the bathroom. “I told you to be quiet!”

A man called from outside the door of the room. “Peg? What's going on?”

She shut the door. “Nothing.”

As loud as I could, I yelled, “Help! Help me! She's keeping me prisoner!”

More footsteps, heavier footsteps. The door flew open.

I sank to my knees.

An officer in full patrolman regalia, complete with gun in holster. He was tall, around six one maybe, his dark hair buzzed short. His left hand was flat on the door, thick silver band on his ring finger.

His mouth fell open.

“Oh, thank God,” I said. “She's keeping me prisoner!” I pointed at my face. “She did this to me! And her kid hit me with a stick! I want to go home and—”

His eyes left mine as he slowly turned to the woman. “Jesus Christ, Peg. What did you do?”

She stood there, arms crossed, and slowly shook her head. Not exactly the body language of a kidnapper who had been caught by a law enforcement official.

He frowned. “Peg? Something to say?”

She reached over in front of him and pulled the door shut.

I grabbed the knob and tried to pull. “Help! Get me out of here! Arrest her!”

But the door didn't budge. So I put my right ear to the door and listened.

The cop sounded pissed. “What the hell? Who is that? She looks all beat up.”

“She was in a car accident. We brought her here to help her out.”

“Bull. She doesn't sound like someone who is here voluntarily.”

“She's the one I told you about.”

What did that mean?

Had Mrs. Dixon—Peg
—
called him earlier about the accident? But then why didn't he help me?

He said, “You know I can't turn a blind eye.”

Was this her husband? He couldn't knowingly let her keep me, could he?

But then Peg said, “You
will
turn a blind eye. You won't say a word.”

A chill ran up my spine.

“Peg, you know I have to report—”

“I'll tell her. I will. I'll call your wife and tell her about us.”

I sucked in a breath.

The cop
was
married. But not to her. They were having an affair, and he would stay quiet about me or else … Peg would tell his wife.

I hit the door. “Please! You can't let her do this! My name is Olivia Flynn! Everyone will be looking for me!”

There were murmurs, followed by quick footsteps clambering up the steps. “Hey! Don't go! Let me out!” I leaned my forehead against the door. “Come back!”

This isn't happening.

But moments later, a car started up, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel.

I sat down on the closed toilet. My face scrunched up as the first sobs began, so violent they made my shoulder hurt more than it already did. If an actual officer of the law wasn't going to save me, who would?

I jumped when the bathroom door swung open. Peg stood there.

I exploded off the toilet. “You can't keep me here! He's probably going to turn you in.”

She smiled. “No, he's not.”

“He's a cop! He'll do the right thing!” I yelled.

Peg laughed. “Maybe if he thinks with his head, but trust me, sweetie, he doesn't think with his head. No man does.”

I glared at her. “How can you be so evil?”

The smile left her face. “I'm not.”

“Really?” I couldn't stop the guffaw that chewed its way out. “Oh my God. First you kidnap me and keep me here. And now you're also having an affair with a married man.” I rolled my eyes.

Peg hauled off and slapped me, the smack loud in the quiet room.

I staggered back with the force of it, holding my hand to my stinging cheek.

She jabbed her finger at me. “YOU do not get to judge. YOU have no right. YOU have no idea what it's like.”

Even after all she'd already done, I was still stunned that she actually hit me. I mumbled, “What?”

“To be me.” She was no longer yelling. “To do everything right, to play by every rule, only to have your husband leave you.” She shook her head. “And Ritchie?” She held a thumb up toward the ceiling. “He's one of the only good things in my life. His wife is horrible. He never should have married her. But if he ever leaves her, she'll take him for everything he has.”

“Especially if he's an adulterer,” I said.

Peg lifted and lowered a shoulder.

“So he won't say a word about the fact you're keeping a prisoner in your basement.” Reality hit me. The hope I harbored about the cop—Ritchie—doing the right thing was hollow.

She set her hands on her hips. “That's right. So if you're sitting down here thinking he's going to come to your rescue, you might as well forget it. He needs to keep his wife happy.” She raised her eyebrows. “And I'll keep him happy.”

Not really wanting details about how that was going to happen, I shoved past her and walked over to the bed and sat down. I glanced up at the window. “I know what you did to my car.”

“Yeah. Couldn't leave it out on the road. It was a hazard to traffic.” She smiled. “Such a shame no one will see it. I mean, if that's what you were counting on.”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at her.

She stepped toward the door and put her hand on the handle, starting to leave. But then she paused a second and faced me once more. “It's all so … hopeless for you.” She shrugged. “Kind of makes you want to pull your hair out, doesn't it?” She slipped out, shutting the door.

The padlock clicked before I could even get my breath back.

She knows.

I crawled into the bed and pulled the covers up.

She knows, she knows, she knows
.

Peg knew about the trichotillomania. Which meant she had found the journal. There was no other way she could have known.

My gaze went to the window above my head. There was a smear there, a dirty tongue-shaped smear. I shivered, then yanked the covers all the way over my head and cowered.

Who was that boy in the window? Was he going to come back? Was he something else I had to worry about?

Because I had enough goddamn problems already.

A cop had been there, had known I was being held against my will, and he did nothing. The whipped SOB wasn't going to help me. And my car, my poor wrecked car. The one thing I thought would lead help to me was no longer of any use.

And
now …
Peg had found my journal. My secret history.

My body began to rock back and forth.

I am screwed. So clearly and utterly screwed.

 

{12}

I HUDDLED IN
my cave, unable to do anything but stare at the white wall of sheet inches in front of my face. My stinking breaths were loud puffs in my pathetic little fake haven of safety.

The door upstairs slammed, and there were voices. Peg's and Flute Girl's.

Clunk
.

A car door?

Clunk.

Another.

An engine started. Gravel crunched and the sound of the motor receded until there was silence. Were they both gone?

Slowly, I lifted the edge of my cocoon and revealed myself with an automatic glance up at the window to make sure the glass was empty. No jack wagon leering in at me. I breathed a sigh.

I went over to the door and put my ear against it. Nothing. Were they gone?

Where?

It was morning. I quickly added up the days in my head.

Sunday. Were they at church?

I rolled my eyes at the irony.

My hand gripped the doorknob and turned. Nothing.

I jiggled it and pushed. Nothing.

Despite its crap appearance, the door wouldn't give.

Obviously, I wasn't going anywhere.

“Can one freaking thing go my way? Please?” I leaned back against the door, studying the basement. There had to be something I hadn't noticed. Something I could use to get out. Now would be the time to explore because I could make as much noise as I wanted without alerting anyone.

Over at the table, I pried a lid off one of the plastic containers. I found small bottles of paint and some brushes. Also some stamps, like my mom had for scrapbooking. Not that she ever used them, mind you. But when scrapbooking was hot, she bought all the accoutrements in case the urge struck her.

I dug through, hoping for a forgotten pair of scissors. Maybe an X-Acto knife. I raised my eyebrows.
Yeah. Now that would be a seriously wicked weapon.
One whole side of the container was a stack of paper. One sheet looked like a smeared rainbow of pastels, pink and blue and green.

In seventh-grade art, we'd made paper like that. First we spread out sheets of tissue paper and dripped food coloring on them. The dots immediately drifted outward, diluting in color. We let them dry until the next day and then ironed sheets of waxed paper on top. Our teacher had to help, of course. I suspect that letting a bunch of twelve-year-olds play with a heavy, hot iron without supervision would have been frowned upon. But the end result was a sheet of what resembled pretty, handmade paper.

Did Peg actually let Flute Girl loose with an iron?

I let go of the sheet and let it drift down to the rest of the stack, then replaced that container's top and popped off another. Nothing but books. I picked one up and looked at the cover.

The Quest for the Coven
by J. M. Cutler.

My groan was instantaneous.

“Seriously?” Of all the books in the world, this one had to end up in my basement prison?

That particular young adult novel had come out about six months after
The Caul and the Coven,
the first book of my trilogy
.
There were enough similarities in it to mine that my mom and I had actually considered litigation, until Billy had talked me out of it.

But I mean, come on. Two kids, looking for their lost mother, who was trapped in a gemstone from a necklace? And then they needed to hunt down the rest of the missing gems and put them back in the necklace in order to get their mother back?

Sounded suspiciously like mine, except in
The Caul and the Coven
the mother was trapped in a set of books. I read the Cutler book, of course. I wanted to see what it was about. The writing wasn't all that bad, but what a rip-off.

My book was already on the
New York Times
bestseller list, and Billy thought that it might seem petty of me to pursue a lawsuit and that I would look better in the press if I ignored it. But I chose to write a blog entry about it.

That post resulted in many of my fans going into a bit of a frenzy, crucifying J. M. Cutler as a plagiarist. They went on all the online review sites for readers and wrote horrible reviews of his books. I felt kind of bad about it. But J. M. Cutler never came forward or posted a rebuttal of any kind. Billy said he thought that J. M. Cutler was a pseudonym, probably made up by a book packager looking to cash in on a hot property.