The Detour

  “Rory is real!” I said. “He came to my book signing!”

  Wesley chuckled again, some leftover laughter, and widened his eyes. “Oh, okay. My bad. So you’ve actually met the dude. I take it all back.” And then he laughed again.

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t remember what I’d written in the journal that far back—whether or not I’d mentioned that Rory told me he was at my signing but that I hadn’t actually met him in person.

  Wesley must have accepted my silence for what it was: confirmation that I hadn’t met him. “Oh, so you never met the dude. So he could be someone out there on the interwebz, some chimo perv just whacking off to your scintillating conversation.”

  I couldn’t stop the tears. “He’s real. I know he’s real.” I sniffled.

  “Oh, okay,” said Wesley, with mock concern. “I wouldn’t want you to go to Chicago for your first kiss and not have it happen.”

  “Shut up.” I wiped my face with my right hand. I wanted him to leave. I didn’t even want to try and attack him anymore. Or try to escape. I was tired. So tired.

  Wesley pointed a finger at me. “I can help you with that.” The corners of his mouth turned up, and his eyes glimmered. “That first kiss. I mean, I don’t want you to go all the way to Chicago only to discover Rory isn’t real. What a disappointment for you.”

  I shook my head. “He is real. I am going.”

  He slid up the bed, cutting the distance between us in two.

  “I need you to leave.” My voice quavered, and I knew he heard it.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked. “About that first kiss?”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Just go.”

  Wesley slid once more, coming to a rest right beside me. His firm backside pressed against my leg. He smelled of wood smoke and gasoline.

  I tried to slide away.

  He leaned in and over my left side, blocking me from going that way. His face was inches away from mine.

  I couldn’t help but notice that my right side—my right hand, my right arm, everything—was unencumbered. And inches below me lay a sharp-edged piece of metal.

  In order to get it while he wasn’t paying attention, he would have to be focused on something else. I leaned to my right, making him think I was trying to avoid him.

  “Where you going?” he asked. “I’m doing this for you, you know.”

  My right arm was bent, my hand flat on the mattress.

  “Fine,” I said.

  His eyes widened a little. “What?”

  “Fine.” I shrugged my right shoulder slightly. “Kiss me. I don’t care.” Inside, I was cringing. And when he leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine, I wanted to scream.

  His lips were warm and chapped. Disgusting. But I forced myself not to move. He must have thought I wanted more. I needed him to be distracted. And sticking his gross tongue in my mouth would be just the ticket.

  I tried not to gag as his hot, slimy tongue groped around in my mouth. My right hand slid out, toward the edge of the bed.

  Wesley’s tongue kept probing. His hand slid up and rested on top of my left breast.

  My fingers crept toward the gap between the mattress and box spring.

  His fingers spread out and began to squeeze as his tongue continued to assault my mouth. My skin crawled.

  Focus, Livvy, focus.

  My fingers reached the gap and stopped. I stretched out my arm as far as I could go.

  Nothing.

  My reach ended what had to be centimeters from the thing that would get me out of all of this. I needed another inch. And there was only one way to get it.

  I slid my bottom down, lowering my body and thus, my arm.

  Wesley finally took his mouth off mine. “Oh yeah.” He slid down and lay on his right side facing me. With his left hand, he tilted my head toward him and put his mouth back on mine. His hand settled on my right breast.

  I reached down with my hand and slid my fingers into the gap. I grasped the strip of metal and cardboard and pulled it out. Careful not to move quickly enough to draw attention to what I was doing, I slowly firmed up my grip.

  His fingers yanked down the top of my camisole and exposed my breasts.

  I bit his tongue. Hard.

  Wesley snapped his head back. “Ow! What the hell?” He clapped his hand over his mouth.

  “Aaaaahhhhhhh!” I slashed hard at his face with the blade, drawing a scarlet line down his left cheek.

  “Oh, you bitch!” He held his cheek with his other hand.

  With speed fueled by pure adrenaline, I slid off the bed and ran to the door, shutting out the screaming pain in my shoulder. My blade was secure in my hand, so I reached for the padlock with only my thumb and forefinger, but got the lanyard instead. When I lifted it up, the weight of the padlock caused the key to slip. The heavy padlock dropped with a clunk onto the floor. I glanced back at the bed.

  Still stunned, Wesley held his cheek as he sat up, feet swinging for the floor.

  Don’t look back!

  I stooped over, snatched the padlock from the floor, and flung open the door. I leaped through the doorway onto a cement floor. Stark wooden stairs led upward. I pulled the door shut. As it closed, I caught a glance of Wesley nearing it, his face red, and his eyes narrowed and dark.

  I flicked the latch on the door into the silver hasp on the wall just as Wesley slammed into the door.

  I screamed and dropped the padlock and lanyard, then shoved my injured left shoulder against the door and grimaced at the pain. I leaned down, grabbed the padlock off the floor, and slid the shackle into the hasp. My hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t click the padlock shut.

  “Let me out!” The door banged again. The padlock was thick, but that silver hasp seemed to give a little each time Wesley slammed into it.

  Come on, come on. I tried again to close the padlock. My chest was heaving. My fingers shook on the metal. “Come on, you son of—”

  Click!

  A louder, much more satisfying sound from my vantage point on this side of the door, that was for sure. I glanced down and pulled my camisole back up. My hand was still trembling.

  Wesley yelled, “I wish I could see your face when you find out the truth about Rory!”

  “You want the truth?!” I yelled. “You’re going to jail for what you did to me! For helping Peg!”

  Wesley laughed, a chilling sound. “Sure. I’ll be in jail while you go visit your boyfriend. Let me know how that goes.”

  Bang! He slammed into the door.

  I stood there and panted as I waited for the pain in my left shoulder to subside. I reached down for the lanyard and threw it into the dark recesses of the basement. The key landed with a faint ping on the cement floor. I lifted my eyes to the top of the stairs.

  A door sat ajar.

  I’d gotten out of the basement room. Step one complete. Now on to the next one, where I had no idea what lay in store for me. I glanced around.

  Where did it—

  My blade lay on the floor by the door. I retrieved it. You didn’t let me down.

  Then I straightened my camisole, tightened my sling, and began to climb the stairs.

  {18}

  THE FIRST STAIR was rough under my bare foot. The wood looked unstained and felt unsanded. I lifted my other foot to the next stair, then let the other join it as I slid my right hand up the railing.

  Bang!

  I jumped.

  The basement door again. Wesley muttered something.

  I set a hand over my pounding heart. Chill. He’s locked in. He can’t get out. But that door wouldn’t last forever.

  I moved up another stair, one foot after the other, being as silent as possible. I prayed they wouldn’t creak very much. As I climbed higher and higher, none did. I reached the top of the stairs and set my hand on the knob. I held my breath, pressed my ear to the wood, and listened.

  A clock ticked, almost echoing. Grandfather clock maybe? Although I didn’t recall hearing a chime
the whole time I’d been there. I listened for the hum of a refrigerator, which would indicate the door opened into the kitchen. But there wasn’t anything like that. I leaned closer to the door, my nose nearly sticking out the gap. A slightly charred scent lingered over the smell of pizza. Maybe Peg had burned something recently.

  Bang!

  Wesley again.

  I needed to get the hell out of there before he got loose.

  I pushed the door open. Creeeeaaaaak.

  I froze.

  I waited a moment to see if anything happened. Nothing did. I stepped out the doorway, leaving the door open. I couldn’t help but notice a rusty dead bolt, again on the outside of the door.

  Was it a hobby of hers to lock people in the basement or what? Or were the locks on the outside simply outdated child safety precautions, pointless now that Flute Girl was bigger?

  That almost made sense.

  I focused my attention on my surroundings. The door had opened into a living room, lit by a single lamp with a dusty white shade. A blue microfiber couch and matching chair and ottoman all faced a large television. Two doorways sat at either end of the room, but both were so dark it was impossible to tell where either led.

  Bookshelves lined the far wall. As my gaze ran over them, I saw a patch of red in the dim light. I stepped closer. “Oh my God.”

  I ran over and grabbed my purse off the shelf, clutching it to my chest. I quickly set it on the back of the couch and dug for my phone. It wasn’t there. I sighed and perused the other shelves, wondering if my phone was possibly somewhere nearby. There was a familiar book spine. The Caul and the Coven by Livvy Flynn.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. I could find out right then and there if Peg had ever come to one of my signings. If I’d been right, if I’d somehow inadvertently done something to piss her off. I pulled the book off the shelf and opened it to the page I always signed.

  My mouth dropped open.

  I hadn’t written in it, but someone else had, in black Sharpie no less.

  LIAR.

  I turned the page. Same words, scrawled on that page and the next and the next. Who would do that to a book?

  Flute Girl?

  I stopped turning separate pages and flipped through the whole thing at once. LIAR was written on every freaking page.

  I shut the book. It was evidence. Evidence that Peg and Flute Girl had it in for me. I bet one of those CSI people could figure out if the book had been defaced before they locked me in the basement. That was premeditation.

  I smiled. I would put her away, and that book would come in handy during the process. Something else red caught my eye. A folder. I pulled it out.

  No way.

  I had the same one, somewhere at home, with the words:

  Los Angeles Novelist

  BOOT CAMP

  I opened it. First thing I saw was the eight-by-ten photograph, which had been included in the exorbitant fee. My gaze fell on the girl in the middle of the front row with the thick headband and earnest expression.

  Me.

  Holy crap. We’d been there together?

  If Peg remembered me from her critique group, why didn’t I remember her?

  I held the photo closer and scanned the faces, none of which looked anything like Peg. Then I peered more closely at a mousy-haired woman with glasses. Bleach the hair, change to contact lenses …

  Peg.

  I breathed out.

  But what had I done? Why was she so mad at me? Was it simply because I had ended up published and successful and she hadn’t?

  Was all of this due to jealousy?

  Bang!

  Fainter from up here, but Wesley was still at it, trying to get out. I needed to go. But I needed to find some shoes first. Maybe mine were there somewhere.

  I shoved the folder back on the shelf, stuck the book and my weapon in my purse, and turned around.

  I gasped.

  Flute Girl blocked the doorway to the left. She concealed something in her right hand, while she firmly clasped that stupid flute in the left. Her eyes were wide, her jaw slackened. Most likely a mirror image of my expression. Obviously, she was just as shocked to see me as I was to see her.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m telling my mom!”

  “Oh, go right ahead, you little freak.” I nearly spat out the words as I headed for the other doorway, hoping it led to the outside. But she was on me in a second. She grabbed my left arm and twisted.

  I cried out and dropped my purse, which landed with a thunk on the floor. Then I reached for the only thing that would give me a chance. Her flute. I chose well because she immediately let go of my bad arm and grabbed her flute, trying to wrest it away.

  But my face was hot, my heart pounded, and I was pissed. I lifted a foot, planted it firmly on her stomach, and shoved. She fell backward, minus the flute, which was clenched firmly in my hand.

  I raised my arm over my head and gazed down at her.

  On her back, Flute Girl glared, eyes on her flute. She reached out for it with her left hand. “Give it!”

  I snarled, “Don’t ever mess with me again.” And, as hard as I could, I slammed that flute against the wooden edge of the doorway, bending it practically in two.

  She screeched a feral shrill that made me stumble back several steps to put some distance between her and myself. I threw the damaged flute toward the basement door. It hit the wood floor with a clatter and slid to the opening of the door. Flute Girl scrambled after it on all fours.

  I followed at a run.

  She was so intent on grabbing the flute that she didn’t notice me come up behind her. I grabbed her and shoved her through the doorway. She caught herself before she tumbled down the stairs. Just as I was closing her in, she reached up, and I finally saw what was in her right hand.

  A Hello Kitty cell phone.

  I banged the door shut and slammed the dead bolt home, hoping that the rusty thing would hold.

  A second later, Flute Girl yelled, “Mama! She got out! She got out!”

  I took a deep breath. Time to go.

  {19}

  FLUTE GIRL WAS still yelling, on a cell phone I’d been too hurried and clueless to notice. I wanted to yank the door open and rip it out of her hand, but knew that was stupid. I had a window of escape that was, statistically, already cranking shut.

  I glanced at the doorways on either end of the room. Flute Girl had probably been in bed, so that one led to the bedrooms, best guess. I headed for the other. The hallway was dark, lit only by the thin stream of light from the living room lamp. I felt for a switch, but didn’t find one. I made my way down the hallway, my hand on the wall.

  The adrenaline running through my body masked the pain in my shoulder. I came to a door and flung it open. Cooler air hit me, and the feeling of a larger space. It reeked of motor oil.

  I felt the wall, found a switch, and flipped it.

  A single-stall garage with dark stains on the cement floor. I stepped down the one stair and looked on the wall for an opener. A white box was there, and I punched the button. Nothing.

  “Come on.” I punched it again. Could those things be locked?

  As fast as I could manage, I traversed the hallway back to the living room. As I passed the basement door, there were voices.

  Wesley and Flute Girl. Had she let him out?

  Bang!

  I jumped.

  Flute Girl couldn’t find the key! Thank God I’d thought to throw it. Still, as soon as she found it, I’d have more trouble on my hands. That dead bolt probably wouldn’t hold long if Wesley got at it. Quickly, I took the other hallway, feeling the wall as I went. My hand hit a switch, and light flooded the kitchen. Tiled floor, white kitchen cupboards, a red bistro set with a tall table and two chairs, a vase of white peonies neatly dressing the top of it. Just past that was a door with a window facing outside.

  “Thank God!”

  I’d have to leave barefoot, but at least I’d escape.

  I ran to the door and
turned the knob. Nothing. There was a push-button lock in the knob, so I turned it again. It was already popped out, unlocked. Up on the side of the door was a dead bolt. I slammed it open and grabbed the knob again, yanking.

  Nothing.

  Come on!

  There was another mechanism farther up. Then I realized it was locked from the outside. I slammed my fist against the window, causing it to rattle. Are you kidding me?

  Lights came down the driveway. I ducked. At least I had my weapon and could—

  No.

  During the scuffle with Flute Girl, I’d dropped my purse in the other room, along with my wax paper cutting edge.

  But I didn’t dare face Peg unarmed. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  A wooden block of knives sat on the cupboard. I squatted and made my way over there. I stood up and yanked out a knife with a quiet ting.

  The black handle was thick in my hand, the blade odd-shaped and skinny on one end. I swallowed. All that mattered was that it was sharp.

  I ran back to the living room.

  Downstairs Wesley yelled, “Just look for it, stupid!”

  The largest piece of furniture in the room was the couch. I crouched behind it, sliding into the space sideways as far as I could go. My face was nearly flush with the upholstery, which smelled dusty, while my back rested against the wall. Luckily, the lamp was on the other side of the room, leaving me in some serious shadows. Despite the discomfort, my hiding place was sound.

  The kitchen door unlocked and opened.

  I held my breath.

  Rapid footsteps crossed the kitchen floor, then stopped. Something clicked. Did she set something on the counter? Footsteps again, slower this time.

  Peg would pass the basement door on her way to me. If Flute Girl had released Wesley by then, Peg would let them out.

  And God knows I wouldn’t stand a chance against the three of them.

  My best chance—my only chance—was to confront Peg before she got to that door. Before she let them out. I bit my lip and started to slide out.

  Wait wait wait.

  What if she went down there first?

  I could lock her in. I hadn’t heard the kitchen door shut, which meant it was open. Unlocked. There was no jingling of car keys. They were probably still in her car.