The Detour (2 page)

I'd been wrong about her eyes.

They weren't the eyes of someone who was angry or pissed off or slightly annoyed.

Those eyes were just plain mean.

Then Flute Girl smiled at me, revealing a gap between her two front teeth, a smile that would have been endearing on anyone else in the world. On anyone else, that smile would have been reassuring, telling me,
Everything will be okay
.
You are safe.

But on her? That smile was god-awful sinister.

She picked up a stick about as thick as a good-sized snake and wielded it like a baseball bat, her fists tightening around it with none of the care she showered on her flute. And before my vision started swimming and I passed out, the last thing I saw was Flute Girl swinging that club straight at my head.

 

{2}

“OH-
LIV-
EE-AAAH! OH-
LIV
-EE-AAAAAAAAH!”

Mom?

My mother was the only one who called me by my full name anymore. Well, she and our family dentist, who had known me since I was two. My readers—the world—knew me as Livvy Flynn.

And by
world
, I mainly meant the thirty-two countries where the foreign language rights for my series had been licensed. When the first few translations sold, I had posters made of the covers. But as the deals kept rolling in, I gave up. Instead, I had a juniper bookcase made for all the foreign editions.

My talent and fame didn't exactly pour in much-needed money to my family. We were already pretty well off. I mean, my dad was an oral surgeon and my mom used to be a lawyer, so I would've gotten into the best dorm on their dime alone. But they supported me from the start. I started writing pretty seriously when I was twelve, and when it was clear I had a knack for it, my parents encouraged me to keep at it. When I turned fourteen, Mom told me about a boot camp for novelists in Los Angeles. Although it sounded pretty cool, I hadn't written anything that long yet and wasn't sure I wanted to go. But Mom insisted. Of course she paid for it, as well as our rooms at the Beverly Hilton, so I didn't even know how expensive it was until I overheard a woman say she took money out of her kid's college fund to attend.

Everyone else there was female and old. In fact, I was practically the only person under thirty. Only a man would have felt more out of place. I wanted to sneak out, go find my mom, and have her take me to Disneyland or the beach or
anywhere else
for the next three days.

But then, as we all broke up into critique groups and got to sharing our story ideas, I looked around at those housewives and waitresses and listened to them as they jabbered about finding each other and sharing the same dream. It took me about half a day to realize I didn't want to be like them: half their lives over, still waiting and hoping for a far-fetched fantasy that was never going to happen.

In that moment, I realized how much I did want to be a writer. But I didn't want it to be simply a fantasy, something I gushed about like all those women. I wanted it to be reality. I would
make
it a reality.

So I decided right then and there not to wait until I was old. I would write a bestseller before I was out of high school.

And I did.

On the flight home from the boot camp, I began
The Caul and the Coven
, the first book in a series about twin teenage sisters born into an old family in Portland. Their mother died in childbirth, so they live with their grandfather. One day they discover a book in the attic, their mother trapped in the pages. The only way to release her is to find the entire set of books, each guarded by a witch, and bring them together. The series is about their journey to find the books, and of course they find love and encounter danger along the way as they struggle to release their mother.

“Oh-
liv
-ee-aaah!”

That is definitely not my mom.

The voice was high-pitched, the voice of a child. A girl.

A vision of Flute Girl popped into my head, and I forced my eyes open, but everything was fuzzy, revealing only blurry whiteness.

A ceiling?

No longer hanging upside down in the ruins of my Audi, I lay on something soft.

A bed? Had help come? Was I in a hospital?

I shut my eyes
.

Thank God
.

My head was killing me.
Advil, please
.

The ambulance crew, or whoever rescued me, would have found my purse. My driver's license bore my legal name, Olivia Louise Flynn. Of course the nurses would call me Olivia. My nurse was young, that's all.

I opened my eyes again and tried to focus. On the three sides of the room visible from my vantage point, shelves covered the top half. A desk was pushed against one wall while another had two folding chairs beside a table with several blue-topped clear plastic tubs piled on top.

What kind of hospital was this?

The place looked more like somebody's scrapbook room.

“Hello?” Talking made my head hurt. Hopefully I wouldn't have to speak again. I shut my eyes.

“Olivia?” This voice was different from the other, deeper and older. Still feminine, though.

My eyes opened to a woman's face peering down at me. Blond curly hair fell to her shoulders, and she was rather pretty, with a dimple in her chin, but a lot of wrinkles around her eyes. She was probably a cheerleader in high school before she went into nursing. Before she got old. Before she got all those frown lines.

“You're awake.” Her voice was flat, emotionless.

Shouldn't a medical professional be somewhat
pleased
that the victim of a rollover was awake and speaking and not
deceased
?

“My head hurts.”

She straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “I suppose it does.” Her outfit consisted of jeans and a faded aqua T-shirt emblazoned with a crossbow and the words
Mrs. Daryl Dixon
. Her black bra peeked out of a small hole on the right side.

A
Walking Dead
shirt. Odd attire for a nurse.

My heart started to pound.

She's not a nurse
.

I am not in a hospital.

“Please, I need to get to a hospital.”
Please.

Mrs. Daryl Dixon scratched her head. “Oh, I called 911.” She held up the palm of her left hand, a gesture of apology. “Sometimes it takes them a while to get out here.” She set a hand on my left shoulder, my
hurt
shoulder, and pressed.

I screamed at the instant shot of agony. Unable to help it, I burst into tears.

She let go immediately. “Oh. You
are
hurt. I wondered.” Quite honestly, Mrs. Dixon sounded like she didn't give a crap whether I was hurt or not.

Where the hell am I? Who is this witch?

“Please,” I said through my tears. “Call my mom. My phone is in my purse.…” But she already knew that, didn't she? If she knew my name, then she had already been in my purse, had already gone through at least my wallet to see my driver's license. My heart pounded faster.

“It's okay,” she said. “Like I said, the ambulance should be here before too long.”

My eyes closed, shutting her out—
for God's sake
,
shut up!—
but she kept talking.

“I suppose you aren't used to waiting for anything, are you, Olivia? You probably get whatever you want, exactly when you want it.” She sighed. “You have no idea, do you?”

What did she mean by that? Did she just assume that, due to my expensive car? That I probably had money?

Or did she know who I was?

Doubtful.

Flute Girl was too young to read my books, probably too stupid as well, and Mrs. Dixon didn't strike me as much of a reader.

Should I tell her who I am?

Would it mean anything if they knew I was a world-famous author?

Somehow, I thought not.

I pretended to be asleep or passed out or whatever kind of unconscious state was plausible for someone who had recently rolled her car and probably had a concussion.

No, actually I
wasn't
used to waiting, and
yes
, I usually did get what I wanted.

And right now, Mrs. Daryl Freaking Dixon, I want you to stop talking, and I want the ambulance to get here, and I want to get some pain medicine, and I want to get my shoulder fixed, and I want my mom, and I WANT TO GO HOME.…

The door creaked.

I sucked in a breath and froze. Was she leaving?

“Mama.”

The voice. The one I'd first heard say my name.

Flute Girl? Was Mrs. Dixon her mother?

My heart sank as I tried to stay motionless.

“Is she dead?” Flute Girl sounded a little too excited at the prospect of my checking out for good. Maybe that had been her intent when she came at me with that club.

Did this woman—apparently her mother—know?

Something poked me in my cheek.

My eyes fluttered open.

Flute Girl stood next to her mother, both of them looking down at me.

Gathering every ounce of ornery still in my possession, I growled, “I'm not dead.”

Flute Girl reached out again to poke me. There was dirt under her fingernails. I reached over with my good hand and slapped hers away. The movement sent a fresh course of pain up my bad shoulder, yet I managed to growl, “Get your filthy hands off me.”

Both of them took a step back. Flute Girl crossed her arms as her mother simply frowned at me.

“Well,” said Mrs. Dixon. “Maybe you need some time by yourself until you can figure out how to apologize to my daughter.”

“Apologize?” I nearly spit out the word. “Are you for real? After what she did? She hit me with a stick!”

Mrs. Dixon looked down at Flute Girl, who shrugged halfheartedly with one shoulder, then turned her gaze to me. Her eyes narrowed. “What my daughter did was come and get me and tell me there was an accident. Then we both got you out of the wreck and brought you here. Do you know how hard that was?”

“You didn't have to do that!” My face burned as I cried and shouted, which sent fissures of pain out from my shoulder, but I couldn't make myself stop. “All you had to do was call 911!” And it dawned on me that for whatever reason, she hadn't called them. Not at all. “Just give me my phone! Let me call myself!” The yelling killed my head, and I had to shut my eyes against the tears pouring out. My pounding heart seriously made my brain hurt.

Just breathe.

The woman's voice droned on, berating me. “Are you this ungrateful to everyone? Or just people who pull you out of cars and bring you into their homes?”

Breathe
. I scrunched my eyes shut tighter against the swelling pain and frustration and anger.
Stay rational. This woman is crazy, and you have to stay calm.

I opened my eyes back up and tried to smile as I sucked up to her. “Thank you so much for that. But I really think I should let you all get back to what you were doing before I came along. You have been … so kind.” I almost choked on those words, but I kept going, hoping it would help. “I'm sure you'll be happy to get me out of here and on my way. So maybe you could try 911 one more time.” And then, the addition of the one thing that most certainly would seal my fate. “I'd be happy to pay you for your trouble.”

Which it did, seal my fate, that is, because Mrs. Dixon's face clouded over, a sudden thunderstorm on a previously partly sunny day. She grabbed the arm of Flute Girl and whipped around to the door.

Desperation choked me as I cried, “Wait! Where are you going?”

Flute Girl went through the door, and the woman turned back around to face me, glowering. “You think you can buy anything, don't you? Well you can't buy me.” And she left, slamming the door behind her.

“And no one is coming for you!”

There was a very distinctive
Click!

Did she lock me in? Holy crap, she locked me in.

I yelled, “You can't do this!” I rolled onto my good side, curled up my legs, and dropped them over the side of the bed. I used my momentum to sit up. “Ah!” The swift stab of pain in my shoulder sent a flurry of white snow across my vision. My balance wavered.

I dropped my head and took a deep breath. As my gaze eventually cleared, I found myself staring down at my feet on the green indoor/outdoor carpeting that covered the floor. My bare feet.

Where were my shoes?

I glanced at my right wrist. My MedicAlert bracelet and gold and silver Rolex were still there. My clothes as well: black leggings, camisole, sweater.

But my shoes, my $300 black Italian leather flats, were missing.

All the more reason to find out what the hell was going on.

I counted to three and stood up.

The white snow returned, but this time as a blizzard that refused to clear. Before I could sit back down on the bed, I promptly fainted.

 

{3}

MY DREAMS WERE
of McGrath's Fish House, a restaurant in Bend where we went nearly every Sunday after church. For an appetizer, my dad always ordered the bruschetta topped with a tapenade and tomatoes and shrimp and a balsamic vinegar reduction glaze. He reeked of garlic for days afterward. The stench seeped out his pores. Once when his breath sang of garlic, my dad had tried to kiss my mom, but she playfully fended him off.

I tried that appetizer one time. But the taste of garlic lingered in my mouth the rest of the day, making me put my hand in front of my mouth in case anyone got near enough to smell my breath. I didn't exactly have to worry about someone trying to kiss me. Well, at the moment anyway. Because I knew exactly who I wanted to kiss.

My boyfriend, Rory, lived in Illinois, half a continent away. We didn't get the chance to see each other much—actually we had never even met in person—but he promised to meet me when my November book tour stopped in Chicago.