The Detour (16 page)

“I can.” Ritchie seemed to stand taller then.

Peg glared at him. “I'll tell your wife everything.”

He shook his head. “I'll have to deal with that. But this is wrong. I should have let her go as soon as I found out.” He shot a glance at me. “I'm sorry I didn't.”

Peg locked eyes with Ritchie as she backed up to the wall, then she slowly slid down it until she hit the floor. She shook her head a couple of times, and then shut her eyes. “Fine.” She sat there, bleeding, looking defeated for the first time in my presence.

A screech filled the silence, sending chills up my spine.

Flute Girl flew into the room, launching herself at me. She caught me in the stomach and knocked me over, her red, manic face right in mine as she jumped onto my chest.

I cried out in pain. Before I could try to fight her off, she was lifted up, away from me, in Ritchie's strong grip. She kicked and screamed and thrashed, until he flipped her upside down. “Calm down!”

I sat up. My heart was racing again.

But Ritchie was big and strong, and she was a scrawny kid.

It's okay. He has her. This is over.

I leaned back against the nearest chair, giving myself a moment to breathe before I got to my feet.

“Mama!” Flute Girl refused to quit screaming as she struggled to get out of Ritchie's grip. Her knees were inches from his chin, while her braids nearly brushed the floor. She stopped for a moment and glared over at me. “You killed my mama!”

“No, I didn't!” I pointed at Peg, who had somehow smeared the blood so it looked like she wore a scarlet turtleneck. Still, she was obviously
not
dead. “Look. She's fine. She's right over—”

Flute Girl slammed a fist into Ritchie's groin.

His knees crumpled, and he dropped Flute Girl as he hit the floor. She leaned over him a moment, then scuttled about four feet away, cradling something.

Flute Girl got to one knee and whirled toward me, her eyes, hate filled and flashing, locked with mine.

But I slowly lowered my gaze to the black barrel of the revolver she pointed straight at my face.

A flash of fear ran up my body, paralyzing me.

Ritchie's hand slapped his empty holster. “Hand it over!”

Flute Girl struggled to hold the weapon with both hands. If it weren't for the obvious weight, plus Ritchie's empty holster, I could have talked myself into believing it was only a toy.

I stared at the barrel, then beyond, to her eyes.

I gulped.

All of this and I was going to die anyway?

“I'm serious! Hand it over!” Ritchie's face twisted in pain as he reached out a hand toward her.

“No! I hate her.” Flute Girl scrunched up her eyes at me and tightened her grip on the gun.

Peg stood. “Sweetie, give Ritchie the gun.”

“No!” Flute Girl got to her feet and took a step back.

I whispered, “She can't fire it, can she?”

Ritchie didn't answer.

Maybe his silence was an answer.

Not good enough for me. “It's got a safety, right?”

Ritchie didn't look my way. “Internal safeties, to prevent an accidental discharge.”

“What does that mean?”

His voice was low. “Only an intentional pull of the trigger will fire the gun.”

“Well, I think she's got intention!”

Ritchie shook his head slightly and got to his knees, both palms held out toward Flute Girl. “You need to give me the weapon now.” He inched forward.

Flute Girl's eyes darted between me and Ritchie. She turned the gun toward him. “Stay back!”

He halted.

Once again, the gun was leveled at my head.

And, apparently, there was no safety to stop her from pulling that trigger. “Please don't…” I held the trembling palm of my good hand toward her, a useless shield, but there was nothing else to do.

Please don't kill me.

Ritchie said, “That's not a toy, and you need to give it back to me.”

“I know it's not a toy!” Flute Girl waved the gun a bit, and then lowered it for a moment, her arms obviously fatigued from holding it aloft so long. “She hurt Mama and Freddy!”

What? Who the hell is Freddy?

Ritchie asked, “Who is Freddy?”

“My flute!” she screamed.

And then I was staring at the barrel again.

Peg stepped past Ritchie and stopped beside me. “Sweetie.” Her voice was shaky. She held out the hand that wasn't on her neck. “Please put the gun down. I'm fine.”

“No!” Flute Girl didn't stop glaring at me. “I hate her. I always have.”

Always? How did roughly forty-eight hours count as always?

“I want her to go away.”

Behind Peg, partially hidden from Flute Girl, Ritchie slowly got his feet under him, a cat ready to pounce.

I needed to keep her attention away from him. “I am!” I said. “I'm leaving, right now.”

“It doesn't mean anything!” she yelled. “I want you to go away FOREVER!” Her finger started to squeeze the trigger.

Ohmygodsheisreallygoingtokillme

I screamed.

Ritchie lunged at her.

She saw him coming and whirled, then pulled the trigger.

BANG!

I kept screaming as he landed on top of her and grabbed the gun, holding it high above her as he pinned her with his body.

I breathed out.

It was over.

Flute Girl had missed him.

Flute Girl had missed
me.

Everything is fine. It is all over.

And then I turned to my right.

Peg lay on her back, legs sprawled and hands clutching her chest as blood gushed through her fingers. A crimson stain spread out below her body.

Flute Girl screamed, “Mama!”

Ritchie stood up, and Flute Girl crawled across the floor to Peg's side, bawling. “Mama!”

Ritchie quickly secured the gun in his holster, grabbed his radio, and called for help.

Still shaking, I managed to get to my feet and stumble toward the kitchen. I passed the open basement door.

Still no Wesley.

I turned back to where Peg lay on the floor. Flute Girl's head was on Peg's chest, her mother's fresh blood shiny in her hair and on her face.

I ran into the kitchen and skidded to a stop. A smartphone in a black case with white polka dots sat on the counter.
My
smartphone. I snatched it up with a trembling hand.

Flute Girl's shrieking and wailing sent a chill down my back. I ran out the open kitchen door, down the steps, past Ritchie's patrol car, and down a patch of stiff, scratchy grass to the end of the driveway.

I stopped under the yard light.

The night was warm. Humid and still. Cicadas thrummed. I liked their sound. Comforting.

Outside. I was outside. The air was so fresh.

After a deep breath of that glorious air, I circled around to stare back at the house.

White.

Are you kidding me?

That house of horrors was painted
white
, with baby-blue shutters on the windows, where the glowing yellow light made the inside seem cozy. Normal.

I half expected the windows to be blacked out, the house itself some nasty run-down brick ranch, covered with noxious ivy. Would anyone believe this had been my prison? Or would they take a quick gander at this well-maintained bungalow and dismiss me with,
You made it all up?

No
,
I didn't. It happened. They did it.

I hid behind a tree, out of the glow of the yard light, where I could see everything, but nobody could see me until I wanted them to. The mailbox was a few feet away, the address in reflective tape.

613 DAISY LANE.

Right.

I stayed there until sirens sliced into the rhythm of the cicadas.

I blinked.

First responders.

I blinked again.

For Peg.

Who was probably bleeding out that very minute.

The sirens wailed louder and louder. When the ambulance sped up the driveway, I followed it, sticking to the shadows.

A tall, heavyset man with a dark beard was the first out of the vehicle, wearing the same dark blue uniform as the small blond woman right on his heels. They ran into the house.

I couldn't make myself go inside, so I stood near the steps.

My phone vibrated. I touched the screen without thinking.

“Olivia?!” Mom's voice was high-pitched, loud.

“Please come get me.”

“Oh my God, baby, where are you?”

“I don't know.” Then I started to cry. Another police car pulled in, this one the county sheriff. A muscular older bald man in a dull green uniform with a serious gun belt strode over to me, jingling as he walked. His gaze lingered on my face, then drifted to my makeshift sling. He frowned. “Miss? Are you hurt?”

“Yes.” My knees gave out. I collapsed into his arms just as everything went dark.

 

{20}

I WOKE UP
in the back of an ambulance, lying on a gurney, my lower half tucked in tight under a white blanket. I took a deep breath.

Finally. Saved. “Hello?”

Someone was speaking up front, on the radio, and chatter came from outside through the gap in the open doors. There was an abbreviated whoop of a siren, not from my ambulance, though.

Another one?

I slid out of the bed and took a few wobbly steps to the back, where I grabbed the edge of one door and stuck my head out.

Flashing red and blue lights lit the night. An ambulance waited about fifty yards away behind the two law enforcement vehicles. Beside it, a gurney with a white-sheet-covered body.

Peg?

My knees threatened to give out, so I made my way back to the bed and lay down.

Was it really over?

Then the entire vehicle gave slightly as Officer Ritchie climbed in, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the roof.

I sat up.

He still looked like he was in pain from Flute Girl's punch.

“Is she—” My tone came across as sympathetic and kind, so I stopped. I wanted Peg to be dead. Didn't I?

He nodded once, slow.

“I didn't do it,” I said.

“I know.”

“Do they know? The sheriff? Does he know it wasn't me?”

He held up a hand. “Yes. They know. They know everything.” He handed me my phone. “Sheriff says you dropped this out there.”

I breathed out. “Thanks. And thank you for getting me out of there.”

“If I had let you go the moment I saw you…” He trailed off and looked out the back of the ambulance. “It wouldn't have come to this.” He sighed; there was a definite shakiness to the sound.

Did he blame himself for her death? He seemed broken up, but not like someone who had lost a loved one. More like someone who seemed equal parts sad and relieved. “I swear to you; I had just spent an hour trying to talk Peg into letting you go, telling her this whole revenge thing was pointless.”

“Oh my God, what revenge? She kept going on and on about me apologizing for something, and I have no idea what it was. I know that we were at a novelist boot camp together, but whatever I said or did to her was a long time ago. I was fourteen!”

Neither of us said anything. Then his eyebrows rose. “We found Wesley locked in the basement. Claimed you attacked him with a knife.”

I shook my head. “Not a knife. The edge of a box of waxed paper.”

Ritchie's eyes widened. “Really?”

I nodded. “It's in my purse. Wherever that is. The rest of the wax paper box is in one of the tubs in the basement.”

He tilted his head a little, almost a gesture of respect. “Resourceful.”

“I worked with what I had.”

“I should have gotten you out of there the minute I saw you.” His gaze dropped to his feet.

“What will happen to Wesley?”

“He's been in trouble before. He did a little time in a court-ordered juvenile home last year for some Internet fraud.”

“And Flu—” I swallowed. “Her daughter?”

He shrugged. “Psych evaluation for sure. After that, she has a father, somewhere. And Peg's parents may decide to become her guardians.”

I shivered at the thought of Flute Girl out there running around. “She should be in therapy.”

He nodded. “She'll get the care she needs.”

“What happens to me?”

“The sheriff's office will question you. And you'll tell the truth. About everything that happened.”

“I won't tell them about you seeing me before.” I didn't know why; I guess I felt I owed him.

“Don't lie for me.” He looked genuine. And sad. “I made a mistake.”

So he did blame himself for Peg.

“You did the right thing in the end.” I was quiet for a moment, thinking about the danger he'd been in when Flute Girl had the gun. His life had been on the line, too. “What if they don't believe me?”

“Peg's not … Peg wasn't crazy. She just went off the handle. People will believe your story. It wouldn't be a stretch to believe her capable of something like this. Especially given the backstory.”

Was he talking about the boot camp?

Before I could ask, he handed me a slip of paper. “Here's my number if you have questions, or need anything.”

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.