The Detour

  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 plagiaris
t. 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.

  I dropped the book back in the bin and quickly perused some of the other titles. Most were YA. I’d read many of them, since I liked to keep up with the competition. At least I would have something to pass the time if I wanted. I set the lid back on top. Books, art supplies. Other than the starvation, pain, torment, and torture, this incarceration was turning out to be almost like summer camp.

  I rolled my eyes. I could read a book, paint a picture, maybe even make some fancy paper if I felt so inclined—

  I gasped as something suddenly dawned on me.

  I ripped off the top of the container with the paper in it. I quickly dug through the stack, searching. Nothing. Nothing but paper.

  “Where is it?” I shoved that tub aside and went to the only other one I hadn’t rummaged through. “Please. Be there.” Wax paper. A wax paper box had a slicing edge on it that was sharp as hell.

  I pulled off the top.

  “Yes!”

  If there had been clouds in that basement, they would have parted and a heavenly choir would have kicked in, singing “Hallelujah!” at the top of their lungs. Because there, resting on top, was a blue box of Cut-Rite Wax Paper. For the first time in the past couple of days, something had actually gone my way.

  I reached into the plastic tub and lifted out the box, quickly flipping up the top to view the cutting edge. I raised my eyebrows at the warning. Caution: Cutting Edge Is Sharp. Avoid Contact.

  A smile spread across my face.

  Another phrase declared: The Perfect Kitchen Assistant. “Oh, buddy, if all goes well, you’re going to be assisting me in something far more nefarious.”

  Carefully, I tore the cardboard, pulling off the front of the box with the whole cutting edge. The thing rolled up, wilting in my hand. Too long to be of any use. So I bent the metal back and forth, attempting to break off a length that could be easily concealed.

  Finally, the metal strip snapped in two.

  I smiled and stuffed the rest of the strip into the wax paper box, then closed it, and placed it back into the container, shoving it under a ball of red yarn. I replaced the top of the tub and straightened it and the others so that they appeared untouched.

  The tub of books tempted me. A lot. But if they found me reading, they’d know I’d been snooping. They might look to see if I’d taken anything else.

  That couldn’t happen.

  Back at the bed, I reached down and slipped the slim strip of metal and cardboard between the mattress and the box spring, pushing only far enough to hide it. I slid my fingers in the gap to check. The strip was right there, easily within reach of my good hand.

  Okay. Okay.

  Without looking, I reached down and took it out, then put it back. Then I did it all over again. And again and again, until I knew exactly where to reach.

  Leaving the cardboard attached had been a smart move because it gave me something to hold on to. Otherwise the strip would have been unwieldy and sharp. I found my best grip was holding it between my thumb and forefinger. Then I practiced slashing at the air.

  It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it could buy me a moment. A moment was all it took to slip out the door. And if I could get out that door, I knew I could make it out and find help. I knew I could.

  I put my weapon away and leaned back against the head-board. My stomach growled.

  I slid down and curled up, pulling the covers over me.

  I didn’t even care anymore that I was hungry. My hunger fed me, fueled my rage. Because I was past being a victim. One way or the other, I was getting the hell out of here.

  * * *

  I must have drifted off. There was a tap on the window.

  Had they come back without my hearing the car? Was Flute Girl messing with me?

  My heart pounded as my gaze drifted upward.

  I gasped. The boy was back, the boy from last night. He had short brown hair, dark eyes, and a huge, leering grin. My whole body buzzed. I scrambled off the bed and ran into the bathroom, shutting the door. I pressed my back against it, my heart jumping like crazy.

  Oh my God.

  For the first time ever, I wanted Peg to come back. Even Flute Girl would have been fine. I didn’t want to be alone there with him, whoever he was.

  A minute later, a door upstairs banged shut, and then the ceiling creaked. I pressed my ear to the bathroom door.

  Footsteps on the stairs, heavier than either Peg’s or Flute Girl’s.

  He is coming downstairs.

  BANG!

  I jumped and gasped.

  He’d hit the door. Or kicked it. Then the doorknob sounded like it was being jiggled. He mumbled something, sounded like a swear word I didn’t quite catch.

  He kept jiggling.

  My heart threatened to pound out of my chest.

  What if he got in? There was no way to lock the bathroom door.

  I could make a move for the weapon in my bed. But how much of a weapon would it be against this guy? I’d only seen his face, but he was obviously capable of running whatever machinery was needed to cut up a car. And given how weak I was, my own grandmother could have taken me at that point.

  He spoke again. “Where is it?”

  What was he looking for?

  The door banged again, like he’d kicked it. “I’ll find the key, and then I’m coming in there,” he shouted.

  I swallowed. He was looking for the lanyard with the key. I whispered, “Please, please, let Peg have it with her.”

  Then all his sounds stopped.

  Until he called out, “So what are you doing, Oh-liv-ee-aah?”

  He knew my name.

  I hated the way he said it. I held my breath, hoping he’d give up and go away when I didn’t answer.

  He asked again, in a singsongy way. “Oh-liv-ee-aah, what are you do-ing?”

  My skin crawled.

  He rapped on the door.

  Shave and a haircut. Two bits.

  I shivered.

  “I’m gonna get in there. Just a matter of time, Oh-liv-ee-aah.”

  I slid down to a crouch, hugging myself with my good arm.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me come in.”

  Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin, you douche bag.

  “Let me in.” He did the singsongy thing again. “We’ll have some fuh-un.…”

  My chin began to wobble.

  A tear slipped down my cheek. I swiped it away. “Stop it,” I whispered. “He can’t get in.” Peg was a planner, I’d give her that. She had made my prison secure.

  He growled and smacked the door. “Stupid Peg. She told me I could have some fun.”

  Under my breath, I said, “Go away.”

  He kept talking. “I’m actually a nice guy. Really.”

  I doubted that.

  “We could play a game of chess.”

  Sure we could.

  The weird thing was, his voice sounded almost like someone I knew. Maybe an actor on television, or the movies.

  I let out a shallow breath.

  Then a blast of music, insanely loud, with a male voice screaming words I couldn’t even understand. I slapped my hands over my ears, wincing at the pain in my left shoulder. So I could only cover one ear. The singer’s voice was raspy and rough, the drumbeat rapid, the bass booming. My heart raced faster.

  I stood up and grabbed a hand towel, wrapping it around my head.

  The music got louder, beating its way into my body. “Stop it!” I yelled.

  Two doors stood between me and the sound, and it still hurt my ears. How could he stand to be so close to it?

  There was a faint rapping. How had I even heard it over the deluge? I cracked open the door enough to see him pounding on the window.
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  As soon as he noticed me, a grin spread across his face. He waved: one quick flat slice of his hand through the air. Then he disappeared.

  Gone. He was gone.

  I ran to the bed and grabbed a pillow. Back in the bathroom, I slammed the door, dulling the music only slightly. He’d left me with that sound, that sound so violent it vibrated through my body. I closed the toilet lid and dropped the pillow on top of it, then got down on my knees. I bent over, lay my left ear on the pillow, then pressed a towel to my right ear, and cradled that side of my head with my arm.

  But the sound still trembled through my skin and kept my heart pounding so that I couldn’t even think. Not that I wanted to think.

  Because when I did, the only thing that bounced about in my head was this: How many ways would these people come up with to torture me? And what could I have possibly done to deserve it?

  {13}

  I WAS SO exhausted that I couldn’t do anything but lie there, feeling the noise burrow into my body. My back and legs began to cramp up. But I didn’t want to move. Uncovering my ears even for a second was out of the question. My lower back began to scream, and my bad shoulder was killing me. I had to sit up. I had to—

  Silence.

  I was afraid to believe it. Slowly, I lifted up my arm and pushed aside the towel on that ear.

  My ears rang. My head ached. But there was no more music.

  Was it a trick? Would he turn it back on as soon as I thought it was over? Toy with me until I was more of a wreck than I already was?

  I tensed up, ready to flop back down to protect my ears.

  Click!

  Was the music a distraction? Had he found another way to get the door open?

  I sat up and crawled to the bathroom door. My legs were sore from being bent for so long.

  He couldn’t get in. I wouldn’t let him.

  I held my breath, braced myself for his shoving his way through the door. I should have gone out and gotten my weapon. Why the hell didn’t I?

  “You can come out; I turned that crap off.”

  Peg.

  The breath whooshed out of me.

  I was actually glad to hear her voice. Yes, she was my enemy, but I was pretty confident she wasn’t capable of …

  Well, I’d rather tolerate anything she dished out than whatever that boy had in store for me. I realized that for the first time, I thought of Peg as my protector instead of my captor. I knew it was dangerous thinking. But maybe it would keep me alive.