The Detour

  I turned the knob and opened the door.

  Peg stood there in a blue-flowered dress that revealed her figure. Her hair was up in a bun. Swear to God, if she hadn’t been the reason I was stuck in that basement, she could have been a normal person, back from church. Someone who baked pies for the potluck and watched the babies in the nursery.

  She said, “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  Was she apologizing?

  Because she didn’t seem all that remorseful. In fact, she seemed kind of smug.

  Not really expecting her to answer me, I asked, “Who is he?”

  She shook her head, like it was inconsequential. “My cousin. He lives … around here. Helps me out now and then.”

  Her cousin?

  “He dragged my car in.”

  I wasn’t asking.

  “And cut it up.” She shrugged. “He’s good for things like that.”

  I didn’t want to know what he was bad for. Mustering my confidence, I announced, “I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t care what you want.”

  “Really? You’re fine with him torturing me?” Heat rushed up my face, and I raised my voice. “Because there will be a reckoning for this. There will.”

  Peg shrugged. “He’s harmless.” She held out a white bag that I hadn’t noticed in her hand. “Here.”

  I didn’t move.

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.”

  I snatched the bag from her hand. It was heavier than it looked, and I nearly dropped it.

  Her eyebrows raised, and a smirk crossed her face. “What, no thank-you?”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She turned and left.

  Click.

  My legs were still stiff as I limped over to the bed and sat down. Placing the bag on the bed, I stared at it a moment as I rubbed my hand along my leg.

  The bag looked like it was from a bakery.

  Could I trust her?

  Could there be food in the bag?

  Absolutely, there could be food in that bag.

  But there could just as easily be a dead, bloody squirrel or something equally nasty inside.

  I sighed. I’d seen that in movies, too.

  My mouth watered and my stomach growled.

  Because it would be just like them to do something even meaner than they’d already done.

  I set a hand on the folded top of the bag.

  “You don’t know what’s in there.”

  I licked my lips.

  Unable to stop myself, I flipped up the fold on the bag. I opened it, and then shut my eyes. “Okay. On three. One. Two.”

  Please oh please oh please …

  “Three.” My eyes slowly opened to peek at the contents.

  Two glazed doughnuts and a small blue carton of milk, 2 percent.

  “Oh my God.” I shoved one doughnut in my mouth and bit down, barely chewing the sweet softness before I swallowed, basically inhaling it. Another bite, then another, until it disappeared. “Mmmmmmm.” Sugar lingered on my lips, and I licked them, and then sucked the sweetness off my fingers. I wedged the milk carton tightly between my legs and opened it with one trembling hand. I lifted it to my mouth and took several swigs before I could stop myself.

  I set it down.

  “Slow down.” I didn’t know when I’d get fed again. If I’d get fed again. Slowly, I closed the top of the bag, folding it along the crease. I set the bag at the end of the bed.

  There. I would save the other doughnut.

  My gaze went to the milk carton. Warm milk sucked. I tilted my head back and put the carton to my mouth, shaking it until every drop had landed in my mouth. I swallowed and then burped a moment later. My stomach wasn’t even close to being full, my hunger nowhere near being squelched.

  I stared at the white bag for several minutes. Then I lay down and curled up, pulling the covers up to my shoulders. A nap. A nap would make me feel better. And having something in my stomach was a comfort, even if it was only a little something.

  I shut my eyes.

  What if they came in while I was sleeping? What if they took the bag away?

  My eyes snapped open. I grabbed the bag and tucked it into my chest. The bag crinkled whenever I moved. I liked hearing it, knowing it was there. Knowing I had something that was mine.

  Ironic. Because in the outside world, yeah, I owned plenty of things. Most people would have called me materialistic, and rightly so. I had a veritable crap load of things.

  Peg had no clue what I could do. When I got out of there, I would do that Today show interview. I would fry her and her stupid cousin and Flute Girl. The entire country would be behind me, feel sorry for me, and want to hear my story. And I would tell it.

  Oh, would I tell it.

  People magazine would want to do an exclusive. A cover story! Or I could do a book about it. A memoir. Billy could get me big bucks for it, I bet.

  I just had to get through this and make it out.

  I shut my eyes and listened to the creaking floorboards overhead, the muffled voices of Flute Girl and Peg. The tension in my shoulders began to relax.

  Now I found their voices reassuring? Only the day before, the same sound had me on edge. But the difference was that I’d recently discovered there were potentially worse things than Peg and Flute Girl. And as long as those two were up there, that boy couldn’t get to me.

  But I knew the longer I stayed in the basement, the more chances he would have to break in when they weren’t home.

  How long were they going to keep me there?

  I slid my hand out to the edge of the mattress and over, slipping my fingertips into the gap above the box spring.

  They brushed the edge of the blade. I left them there for a second, against the sharp metal, pressing. There was no doubt in my mind that if I pressed hard enough, I would draw blood.

  Satisfied, I withdrew my hand.

  Whatever happened next, at least I was armed.

  And I wouldn’t just lie there. Not anymore.

  {14}

  THE WHITE PASTRY bag crinkled as I cuddled it. Given my level of exhaustion, I should have passed out immediately. But that didn’t happen.

  I sighed and rolled over on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I set the white bag on my stomach. At least, with the blade concealed beneath me at that very moment, I felt a little more powerful. Maybe I wasn’t exactly in control of the situation, but it was only a matter of time. Peg would slip up, and I’d make my move.

  And then, once I got out …

  What? What would I do? Go back to everything the way it was?

  Books. Movie deals. Packing for college.

  After this, the thing I wanted most was to just get home and stay there. Was that weird?

  Maybe I needed to go to the U. of O., make friends.

  But I didn’t want to be anyplace else new. I didn’t want to deal with strangers. I wanted to be home.

  I swallowed.

  I don’t ever want to leave home again.

  Was that the truth?

  I scratched my head. But I was so excited to go to school. I’d registered for classes; I had my own room in the best dorm on campus. It all sounded perfect.

  Sounded perfect.

  Did it feel perfect when I thought about it?

  Or was I doing it simply because it was expected of me?

  Was college something that I wanted, or was it something my parents wanted? What did I actually want anyway?

  First, to get out of that hellhole of a basement. Second, to make Peg and Flute Girl pay for what they did to me, what they put me through.

  I sighed.

  Okay. But what then?

  Go back home, finish my novel, and pack for college.

  “I don’t want to go to college.”

  I slapped a hand over my mouth. Had I said that aloud?

  I tested the words one more time, slowly. “I … don’t ??
? want … to … go … to … college.”

  Those words felt good. I raised my eyebrows. “Okay. So that’s what you don’t want to do. What do you want to do?” I bit my lip for a moment. “I want to go see Rory.”

  Those words sent a rush of heat up my chest that bubbled over and out into a weird sound that was a cross between a gasp and a sigh. “I do. I want to go see Rory.” My parents hadn’t wanted me to. I was too young, they thought.

  “I’m almost eighteen!” I shook my head. “I’ve got the money.” I had more than enough to take a trip to Chicago. I could afford to do whatever I wanted. Why hadn’t I stomped my foot before this? Told my parents I was going to see him and that was it?

  Maybe I needed to be locked in a basement and tortured before I would finally stand up for myself. Because after this, I wasn’t doing a damn thing I didn’t want to. And I was going to do whatever I pleased, including flying to Chicago to see my boyfriend.

  I began to imagine it: getting off the plane, heading to baggage. Rory standing there, holding flowers—maybe yellow roses, my favorite—and his smile spreading as he noticed me. His dimples would burst out, melting my heart. I would take a step into his strong arms and then his lips would press against mine. Our first kiss.

  I stopped. The image left my head. Did I really believe that would happen? Did I really believe he loved me?

  “He loves me. He told me he loves me.” But he’d never met me in person. We’d never talked in person. He’d never smelled me or touched me or seen the way I walk. I’d never smelled or touched or seen the way he walked, either, but it didn’t matter. I’d been talking to him once a week for months upon months. That was all I needed.

  I sighed.

  So then why did I think it wouldn’t be enough for him?

  Because there was a possibility, a slight one rolling around in my head, that if I weren’t a bestselling author, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.

  Granted, he’d never wanted anything from me. I’d offered so many times to buy him a new computer, but he always turned me down. But what if the thing that attracted him to me was that I could write a decent novel? Would we be Skyping if I was simply some girl?

  No.

  Would I even be on his radar?

  No.

  Would he still think I was beautiful? Would he still tell me he loved me?

  I didn’t know the answer to that. I would never know the answer because I was a bestselling author and that was how he found me. I needed to be confident, to believe that I was capable of being beautiful to him, that I was worthy of being loved by him.

  I nodded.

  I was capable of being beautiful.

  I had to be worthy of being loved.

  And when I got home, I would take control of everything. First would be not going to college. Why should I? My career wasn’t going to get better with a college degree. Hell, I was doing things that the typical college graduate could only dream about.

  And second …

  Second would be Rory. I’d book a flight, go to Chicago, and get the nicest, most expensive hotel room in the city. Because meeting Rory for the first time? A kiss wouldn’t be enough, I didn’t think. A kiss wouldn’t be nearly enough. All those Sunday nights of—

  I sat up, grimacing at the pain the quick movement caused.

  Today is Sunday.

  Rory would be waiting for me to Skype!

  What would he think? That I was blowing him off? I’d never missed one Sunday night, ever. He had missed one when his grandmother died. And another when he had the flu. I had understood.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Peg couldn’t have planned that any better. One more thing for me to lose, thanks to her. “No.” I opened my eyes. Even if they’d had to wait twenty-four hours to officially declare me missing, that time had passed. My disappearance would have at least made the news by now. And Rory would know I was missing, that I wasn’t bagging our Skype.

  He would know. And he would wait for me. Because he loved me. He’d told me so, even after I told him everything about myself. I had to believe him.

  And I had to suck it up and use all my energy to get out of there. Because I knew he was waiting for me.

  That was the first thing I would do. Go see Rory and find out that our feelings for each other were true.

  {15}

  FINALLY, I DOZED off. When I woke up, the light outside wasn’t as bright. Evening. Sevenish, I guessed. The bag crinkled as I moved. “Oh crap.” In my sleep, I’d rested my arm on it.

  I opened the bag and pulled out the doughnut. One half was flattened. I shrugged and took a bite. Ugly or not, the taste was still as light and sugary as before. Despite trying to pace myself, the doughnut was gone four bites later. I licked my lips and sucked my fingers, determined not to waste the remaining morsels of sweetness.

  My throat was dry, so I went into the bathroom and took a long drink from the sink. I turned off the water and stood up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  In the mirror, my face looked haggard and beat up. Dark shadows lay under my eyes, and the long scratch on my cheek was still red. But all the little cuts were scabbing over, as if they had come from a session of half-assed shaving.

  “Lovely. You look so lovely.” I rolled my eyes at myself.

  Click!

  I quickly stepped over to the bathroom door, shutting it with a hushed click. I set my ear against it.

  The bedsprings squeaked slightly.

  Someone was sitting on the bed. Within reach of my weapon.

  Crap.

  “I brought dinner.”

  Peg.

  Taking my time, I emerged from the bathroom.

  She perched on the very edge of the bed. Right above my hidden blade.

  My heartbeat sped up, and my hands began to sweat.

  A greasy, tomatoey smell wafted toward me. In her hands sat a pepperoni pizza on a cardboard circle. Despite my nerves at her being so near my hidden weapon, my mouth involuntarily watered.

  Peg set the pizza on the side table near the bed.

  Please get up. Please.

  But she stayed put, her hands on the edge of the bed. The weight of her body pushed the mattress downward, meaning her fingers were mere inches above the blade from the waxed paper.

  I had to get her away from there. But how?

  And then it came to me.

  I took a quick step toward the door, an unimpressive, half-hearted juke.

  My pathetic move had the intended result. Peg shot off the bed, immediately blocking me from the door. She took a wide stance, hands on her hips. “Really?”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  She pointed to the bed. “Go sit down.”

  I lowered my head in exaggerated meekness, breathing a sigh of relief as my butt sank into the edge of the bed where she had been. For the moment, my hidden arsenal was safe.

  Peg nodded at the pizza. “We eat pizza on Sundays.”

  I nodded. “My family does, too.”

  We didn’t, of course. But I was attempting to cooperate. Because I was ready to try out my weapon and get the hell out of there. My right hand was hidden from her, and I stretched out my arm, sliding my fingers into the narrow gap.

  My fresh, docile tone must have allayed her tension because her shoulders relaxed. She stepped a few feet toward me.

  My heart pounded so hard that I felt it in my ears. Sweat broke out on my upper lip, and I quickly faked a cough so I could wipe it off as I covered my mouth. Then my hand snapped back to my side, fingers slipping in and grabbing the blade as Peg neared.

  Patience. Hold on.

  I needed to get her talking, distract her. “So how much longer do I have to stay down here?” I maneuvered the blade into my palm, then between my thumb and forefinger. I tightened my grip. I wanted to add, Because I’m about ready to take my leave, bitch.

  She frowned. “I don’t know.” She stopped walking toward me.

  No! I s
wallowed the despair climbing up my throat.

  I needed her near me, away from the door, so that when I attacked I’d be able to get to the door before she did.

  Peg tilted her head. “You haven’t shown any regret for what you did.”

  My mouth fell open, and I almost dropped the blade. I got a firmer hold on it and gathered my wits. Was she kidding me? Were we back to that? “I apologize for whatever it is I did.”

  She set a hand on her forehead and rubbed a little as she shut her eyes. “No, see, that is what”—her eyes shot open and she jabbed her hand in the air at me—“PISSES ME OFF!”

  I jumped at her sudden rage. One of my feet slid forward on the slick carpet, and I nearly slid off the bed.

  She took a few steps toward me, arms out to the sides, her face reddening. “Do you think this is easy for me? Having a stranger in my house that I have to feed?” She closed in on the bed, only a foot or so away from me. I could have reached out and touched her.

  I sucked in a breath. Here we go.

  “This isn’t easy for me! Do you think I want you here?” she yelled.

  I shook my head, trying to appear complacent, attempting to calm her down.

  Because I hadn’t been prepared for her to be angry. An angry person is unpredictable. I couldn’t blow my last chance at getting out.

  “I have a daughter to worry about, in case you haven’t noticed!” Peg’s voice grew louder. She took another step toward me, cutting the distance to about a foot. She was so close that I could see the outline of her bra underneath her dress and a bit of mascara on the outside of her eye. I smelled her perfume, an overpowering, almost invasive scent.

  Peg sighed. “You are not the only problem I have.”

  I bit my lower lip and tried to keep my hands from trembling.

  Should I do it?

  Worst-case scenario if I screwed up again? She hurts me, maybe a lot, takes away my weapon, and … what else? What more could she do?

  Restrain me somehow. Tie me up.

  I fought back a shudder as I remembered the gag in my mouth.

  Being trapped in the basement was bad enough, but at least I was free to move around. If I had to be down there and be tied up, maybe even gagged again? I would lose it.