The Detour (15 page)

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.

I just had to get out the kitchen door and into her car. Then I could get out of there.

Footsteps entered the living room and paused.

I didn't dare look. She had to be by the basement door. Wesley yelled something and Flute Girl screeched back.

“Where are you guys?” Peg yelled. The dead bolt clunked.

Please please please
.
Go down there.

The door creaked open.

I shut my eyes and held my breath, listening for her steps on the stairs.
Take a step, take a step.

I was poised, ready to spring for that door as soon as she started down those stairs. Should I give her five stairs? I nodded. I waited to begin counting her steps.

Come on, go down. Take a step.

But there was no movement at all.

Leaning sideways, inching over, I aligned my right eye at the very edge of the couch. I went one inch more and peered out.

Peg stood at the door to the basement. She must have changed for her tryst with Officer Ritchie, because her hair was down and curly, and she wore a black tank top and cropped jeans and—

My shoes. My $300 leather ballet flats.

My mouth fell open.
The freaking nerve
.

Peg's forehead wrinkled as she stared at something on the floor. I followed her gaze.

Something red.

My purse.

Peg shot a glance at the shelf where I'd discovered it. She walked over and stuck her hand in the space where my book had been and straightened the red folder beside it. Peg asked, “Where are you, Olivia?”

My chest knotted up.

I slid my head back, so that I was completely behind the couch, my forehead pressing against the back. I tried not to breathe in the dust.

She continued, “I know you're still here because the garage door is broken and you can't get out the kitchen door without a key.”

I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the knife. Maybe Peg would decide that there was strength in numbers and head down the stairs to get Wesley. But if she didn't …

The element of surprise could be just as much a weapon as the knife. Combined, I had a chance. I just had to knock her down and get past her. Could I do it? I'd blown it the last time.

I had to get this one right.

I raised the knife.

Don't screw up again. You can't.

No.

I wouldn't.

I took a deep breath and rushed straight toward Peg, screaming as loud as I could.

Completely caught off guard, her eyes widened at the knife, and her mouth fell open. Her hands went up in front just as I charged into her. She stumbled backward and fell over the ottoman, landing on her back.

My legs hit the ottoman, and I tried to stop. But my momentum was too much and carried me forward and over.

I landed on top of her, our faces inches apart.

Peg immediately grabbed my left shoulder and twisted. I cried out and slashed at Peg's face. She dodged and grabbed for my wrist. I had no way to get a better position and still hold on to the knife, so I slashed out again, as hard as I could, aiming for her shoulder.

At the last second, she moved, causing the full brunt of my swing, which included all my anger and frustration of the past three days, to hit her neck instead.

The blade sank in, the softness yielding easily. I gasped and yanked it out, expecting blood to gush. “Oh my God!” The words were out of my mouth before I even registered what I'd just done.

Peg's eyes widened. She clutched at her neck.

But …

 … the blood was only a trickle, not the river I'd expected.

The knife fell out of my hands and landed with a thump on the floor as I rolled off her and backed away on my butt. “I didn't mean to!”

Peg slowly sat up, her face draining of color. She wasn't mortally injured, obviously, but she wasn't 100 percent.

With the help of the chair nearest me, I got to my feet. “I'm leaving now.”

She struggled to get up, just as someone touched my back.

I screamed and lashed out with my good arm.

Officer Ritchie quickly grabbed me. “You're fine.”

“No! Let me go! I want to go!”

He didn't release his grip on my arm, but he didn't tighten it, either, or make a move to subdue me further. “Miss Flynn, you're fine. I came to make sure she let you go.”

I stopped struggling.

Was he for real?

Peg said exactly the thing I was thinking. “What?”

He glanced down at Peg. “You have to let her go.
I'm
letting her go.”

Peg braced a hand on the ottoman and got to her feet, her other hand still pressed to her wound. Rivulets of blood ran down her neck. “You can't.”