The Detour

  Ritchie stayed there a moment, then his belt jangled as he went outside. The vehicle moved slightly as someone else came in, the blond lady who had run into the house earlier. “How you doing, sweetheart?”

  “I’m out of there, at least,” I said.

  She studied my shoulder. “You in pain?”

  I nodded. “I rolled my car on Friday. Been here ever since.”

  “Okay. We need to get you to Eugene for X-rays, but the ride could get bumpy. I’m going to give you an IV of fentanyl.” She strapped on a pair of white plastic gloves. From a clear-fronted cabinet overhead that ran the length of the vehicle, she plucked out several white packets of different sizes.

  “What is that?”

  “Fentanyl?” She took my right hand. “Painkiller. Are you allergic to codeine or morphine?”

  “I don’t think so. Just bees.”

  She pulled down a narrow black jump seat from the side of the ambulance and sat down. First she cleaned the blood off my hand, then opened an alcohol packet and swabbed the back of my wrist. “Are you currently taking any medications?”

  “No.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “Um, no.”

  She opened up another packet and a silver needle flashed. I immediately dropped my head away from her and stared at the side of the ambulance. “Little poke here, sweetie.”

  A string of fire ran up the back of my hand. I scrunched my eyes shut.

  “That slid right in. You okay?”

  No words. I wasn’t even in the vicinity of okay.

  “Let me get this hooked up.”

  I opened my eyes and rolled my head back her way. She put some white tape on the back of my hand and attached a tube to the IV, then hung a plastic bag with clear fluid from a hook on the side of the ambulance. She twisted a little plastic switch on the tubing. “This may make you a little drowsy.”

  “Okay.”

  She set a hand on my leg. “The officer said your parents are already on their way.”

  “Good.” I started to feel light-headed.

  She watched me for a moment.

  This was as it should have been, me getting help from someone nice who wanted to help me. Only it should have gone that way on Friday, right after I rolled my car.

  Another reason to hate Peg. Even though she was dead.

  A siren whooped, and I jumped.

  The lady pressed down harder on my leg. “Just the other ambulance leaving.”

  So Peg was gone.

  And they had Flute Girl.

  And Wesley.

  It was finally over.

  They couldn’t hurt me anymore.

  The ambulance began to move. The rocking motion sent a jolt of pain up my shoulder, and I winced until the ride smoothed out. The ambulance accelerated. After a few minutes, my eyelids grew heavy.

  * * *

  I woke up in a hospital room, my left arm in a proper black sling, the throbbing pain that had dogged me for days finally gone. I was in a crisp, fresh-scented light blue hospital gown. The IV tube had disappeared; a bandage covered the back of my hand. I flexed my fingers. “Ow.” The back of my hand felt bruised.

  A plastic cup sat beside a yellow plastic pitcher on the little side table hanging over the edge of the bed. I picked up the cup and took a sip. Water. I drained it and shakily poured myself another glass. Gripping the pitcher hurt my hand and more spilled than made it in the cup. Still, I drank what did make it in. My stomach rumbled.

  There were voices in the corridor. The door swung open, and my parents plunged into the room. “Oh, thank God, sweetie.” Mom got to me first with a gentle hug, then Dad was at my side so he could kiss the top of my head.

  “What happened?” asked Mom.

  I shook my head. “Can we talk about something else?”

  She glanced at Dad, and then nodded my way. “Of course, sweetheart. We talked to the doctor.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “She,” said my dad. “You had a dislocated shoulder, some strained ligaments, a slight concussion.”

  “Anything else?” I rolled my eyes.

  “Some bumps and bruises.”

  I could have diagnosed those. And I’d been right about the shoulder. Not to mention grateful that I wasn’t awake when they put it back into place. “I want to go home.”

  “Later today, if you’re up to it,” said Dad.

  I asked, “Can’t we leave now?”

  Mom set a hand on mine. “The police are waiting to talk to you when you’re ready.”

  I groaned and rested my head against the back of the bed. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Better to get it over with.” Mom sat on the edge of the bed beside me. She didn’t say anything else, and neither did Dad.

  My stomach rumbled again.

  Dad stood up. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  “Check with the nurse first; maybe she’s on a restricted diet,” said Mom.

  “No.” I spoke with more authority than ever before. “I haven’t been sick; I’ve been kidnapped. I don’t need special food.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged a look.

  I sat up straight. “What?”

  Tears filled Mom’s eyes. “That’s the thing. No one has told us anything. Other than that woman is dead.” Mom shook her head. “Sweetie, what exactly happened?”

  I took a deep breath. “The quick and dirty version? I rolled my car. That woman took me to her house and locked me in the basement. She kept me prisoner! She hurt me!”

  Mom looked away. Dad put a hand on her shoulder but locked eyes with me. “Hurt you how?”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.” I gestured at my shoulder. The psychological damage wasn’t worth mentioning because it would just make me upset. “I’ll be fine. But I don’t care that she’s dead! She deserved it!”

  Mom forced a smile, leaned down toward the floor, then held out a Macy’s bag. “Sweetie? I bought you some clothes to change into. And some toiletries.”

  Someone knocked on the door, and Dad went out into the hall. He leaned back in. “The sheriff is here to do the questioning.”

  Mom asked, “After this can we take her home?”

  Dad left for a second, then came back in and nodded.

  “Thank God.” I let out a big sigh and took the bag from my mom. “Can you leave so I can change?”

  Mom nodded. “We’ll be right outside. And they’re letting us go out the back, so we can avoid the press.”

  “There’s press?” I asked. “How’d they find out?”

  “Social media. Someone in the hospital leaked it.”

  I pulled out black yoga pants and a long-sleeved red shirt, made of something incredibly soft. With shaking hands, I held them to my face and inhaled. New. Clean. Heaven.

  There was also a white sports bra and underwear and a pair of black flip-flops. I ditched the hospital gown and dressed quickly. The clean clothes felt and smelled so good. I hoped to hell my others were gone forever.

  I took the bag into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. I was really glad we were going to avoid the press because I still looked like crap.

  The shadows under my eyes were gone. The little cuts and the scratch down my cheek had healed more, faded a bit. I found a brush and a package of hair ties, so I did my hair in a sloppy ponytail, best I could manage with one hand. Almost back to normal.

  Last was a small bag of toiletries: deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, some new Clinique mascara and gray eye shadow, and a chubby tube of lipstick in my favorite pink. I swiped that over my lips right after I brushed and flossed about nineteen times. I didn’t bother with the rest of the makeup, and just tossed everything back in the bag.

  I smiled at myself in the mirror. “Let’s get this over with so I can see Rory.”

  {21}

  THE SHERIFF HIMSELF came to my hospital room, and Mom stayed in there, more as a lawyer than a parent, it seemed. But he s
imply asked me to tell my story and interrupted me occasionally for details, all of which I provided, because I was telling the truth, after all. He didn’t make me feel like a criminal because, of course, I wasn’t one. The only omissions were when I peed my pants and when Wesley saw me naked in the window. He didn’t ask me anything about Officer Ritchie, so I didn’t offer.

  I was torn about whether to call him out for seeing me and not helping. But I knew how evil Peg was. Maybe he had been a victim of hers as well. Something told me to let it go.

  I could tell by the way the sheriff asked some of the same questions in different ways that he was looking for lies. But that’s the thing about the truth: It gets told the same way each time. After an hour of questioning, my throat was sore from talking, and he seemed convinced I wasn’t lying about any of it.

  A nurse came in with a wheelchair. “Hospital policy.”

  I grabbed the Macy’s bag and my phone off the bedside table. A piece of paper fluttered down. The nurse picked it up and handed it to me.

  Ritchie’s phone number. I shoved it in the bag.

  Outside, my smile was ear to ear as I climbed in the passenger seat of my dad’s SUV. Mom sat in the back. We stopped at a drive-through for a burger, fries, and a vanilla malt for me.

  When we got to the house, several vehicles were at the end of the driveway. “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Press,” said Mom. “Get down.”

  I ducked below the windows until Dad got through the gates.

  Inside, I went up to my room and tried to Skype Rory. No response.

  I took a long bath, and then tried him again. Nothing.

  Exhausted, I climbed into bed. But I couldn’t sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I had to snap them back open, to make sure I wasn’t in a basement, trapped by a crazy woman.

  I got back up and double-checked the locks on the windows, then opened up the curtains and let the moon shine in. I crawled back into bed and stared out at the night.

  At some point, I finally nodded off.

  When I awoke, I was afraid to open my eyes.

  Could the last twenty-four hours have been a dream? Was I still in that basement? A prisoner?

  I ran my hand over my left shoulder. Immobilized in a sling. A sling not made out of my cashmere sweater.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes.

  A white matelassé duvet covered me. Beyond my feet stood the hand-carved footboard of the madrone bed I’d special ordered from a local artist. I lifted my hand above my head and ran my fingers over the smooth headboard.

  I sighed.

  Home.

  The sun streamed through the large window with the red-cushioned window seat. My gaze went over to my matching madrone dresser, my glass-topped writing desk, my two laptops, and expensive ergonomic office chair. The framed eight-by-ten enlargement of Rory’s profile picture.

  I breathed out. Everything would be fine. And as soon as I got in touch with Rory, everything would be perfect.

  I slid out of bed and sat on the window seat, gazing out at the Cascade Mountains, which were still partially snow-topped from a heavier than normal snowfall and late arrival of spring.

  I cranked open the window a bit. The day was sunny, in the seventies. A perfect day to be outside on the veranda and do nothing but relax. I used the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I’d barely changed into a pair of denim shorts and a black Oregon T-shirt when the doorbell rang.

  “Olivia!” yelled my mom.

  Downstairs, I walked into our massive kitchen. My agent, Billy, was seated on a high stool at the island, in his usual three-piece suit and tie, with black horn-rimmed glasses bordering on geek, yet chic.

  “Billy!”

  He lifted his hands in the air, and in his loud British accent exclaimed, “There’s my girl!”

  I grinned and stepped into his arms.

  “I am so sorry I couldn’t get here before now.” He squeezed me for a solid minute before letting me go. He set a hand on either side of my face, and his forehead wrinkled. “I don’t even think we want to cover that up.”

  “Cover what up?” I climbed up onto the stool next to him.

  He took a sip from the tumbler of iced tea in front of him. “Your face.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I rolled my eyes, a little bit insulted.

  Billy laughed. “No, my dear, not what I meant. Your war wounds. We don’t want to cover them up.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of, we’d better get ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I asked.

  Billy smiled. “An interview for the Today show.”

  “Oh my God.” I put my hand to my mouth. “Are you serious?”

  Mom laughed.

  “You knew?” I glanced from her to Billy.

  Mom nodded. “The Today show! Can you believe it?”

  Did I really want anyone to see me? “I’m not ready.”

  “You need to do this.” Mom looked over at Billy. “We thought it would be better than waiting.”

  Billy said, “There is already so much speculation, especially with that woman dead. Better to get your side of the story out there.”

  As much as I didn’t want to do the interview, they were right. I wiped my eyes and slid off the chair, landing on the cool, tile floor in my bare feet. “I need to change. How much time do we have?”

  Billy said, “About forty-five minutes. They happened to have one of their feature reporters in Portland, and she’s on her way.”

  “What should I wear? What should I say?” I didn’t even know where to start.

  “First, calm down. You’re recovering from a terrible ordeal. And you have nothing to hide. You are the victim, no matter what happened to that woman. She was in the wrong, and you are confident because you have the truth on your side. No need for pretense. So keep it simple and casual.”

  I climbed back up on the stool.

  He glanced at my shorts and shirt. “Less casual than that.”

  I rolled my eyes and got back down.

  He smiled. “And you’ll just answer her questions with candor and honesty. Be yourself. Because the public will love who you are: a teenager who survived a nightmare situation.”

  “What, and then they’ll want to run out and buy my books?”

  He pointed up. “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  I touched my hair. “And what about—”

  “Something soft that makes you look young. Vulnerable. We want as much sympathy as possible.” His words bubbled out. “And tears are good! Don’t worry if you start to cry.”

  “I’d hate to see how happy you’d be if I really got hurt.”

  “Oh, stop.” Billy patted my hand. “We need to make the most of the attention. That’s all.”

  Mom said, “I could French braid your hair.”

  I didn’t want my hair like that ever again. “Just a ponytail maybe.”

  “I’ll tell them to go light on the makeup,” said Billy.

  Upstairs I took a shower; then Mom dried my hair and put it back in a low ponytail. I dressed in jeans, flip-flops, and a white linen sleeveless button-down. I chose a pair of silver hoop earrings and looked at myself in the mirror. Definitely almost back to normal.

  When I returned downstairs, a cameraman was setting up out on the veranda, which afforded the same fabulous view of Mount Bachelor as out my window. A thin blond woman in a gray sheath dress and high black pumps held out her hand to me. “I’m Lucy Voss, NBC News.”

  She looked familiar as I shook her hand. “I feel underdressed.”

  Ms. Voss smiled. “Oh, don’t feel that way. You look great, Olivia.” She beckoned to another woman, who had long dark hair and purple lipstick and wore a flimsy black tank dress and black combat boots. “Delilah, she’s ready.”

  Delilah patted the chair in front of her. “Over here.”

  I sat down, and she rubbed something nice-smelling into my skin. Her eyes were brown, golden circles bordering the pupils. She said, “We won’t do a whole
makeover or anything. Your agent wants people to see the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  Delilah nodded. “You’ve been through something, and you came out the other side. Let the public see what bravery costs.”

  Bravery? “I guess I hadn’t thought of myself as brave.”

  She smiled. “Maybe you should start.”

  Delilah plucked my brows a bit, then added a touch of mascara, and put something on my lips. She stepped back and frowned, then relaxed. “Good to go.”

  The cameraman took a little more time to get the lighting right before he waved me over. I sank into a cushy green chair, Lucy Voss opposite me. She leaned in, fastened a microphone to the collar of my shirt, and said, “Since we’re taping this and have time to edit, I’d rather just ask you questions and have your reactions, instead of prepping you.”

  I glanced over at Billy. He was on his phone, but gave me a thumbs-up.

  I nodded.

  My parents were a few feet away off camera. Dad wore a frown and had his arms crossed, but Mom was grinning. Delilah had disappeared. It was just me and the reporter, plus the camera guy hidden behind his equipment. “I’m ready,” I said.

  “Great. I will make an intro segment that tells the basic story, based on the sheriff’s report, so America will know what happened. But we want you to fill us in on how you felt during the ordeal.”

  I nodded.

  Lucy Voss and the cameraman conferred a bit. Then the camera was rolling, the lights were bright in my eyes, and she asked her first question. “Livvy, America has been captivated by your story, from the first reports that you were missing until you were found. You’re a well-known, bestselling author. This is almost like a Stephen King novel come to life. Tell us, how are you feeling today?”

  I smiled and gestured at my shoulder. “Other than having to wear this sling, I’m feeling pretty good.”

  “Excellent,” said the reporter. “Can you tell us when you knew you were in trouble?”

  In trouble? “Um, I guess when my car flipped. I knew my shoulder was hurt, and I maybe had a concussion. I knew that I needed help. But…” Would America believe me if I told them about Flute Girl? “I guess the worst moment was waking up in that basement. I was in bad shape and didn’t know where I was.”