The Detour

by S.A. Bodeen

  “And that’s when the woman took you captive?” Her voice held a tad too much enthusiasm for me.

  “I guess so. I mean, I was already captive. That was just when I realized that help wasn’t coming, and she wasn’t letting me go. I realized that I was on my own.” A stray piece of hair fell into my eyes. I swiped it away.

  “So you had no idea why the woman might have wanted to keep you there as her prisoner?”

  I shook my head.

  My mom was still grinning; my dad just looked nervous.

  The reporter continued, “So, at the time, you had no idea who she was.”

  Why was she dwelling on that? My tone held a tinge of snark when I parroted her line. “No, I had no idea who she was.”

  Lucy Voss reached behind her and picked up a box of waxed paper.

  Did she have that there the whole time?

  She handed it to me. “Do you mind showing us what you did to escape that horrible basement?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I stuck the waxed paper between my legs. My hand was shaking a little, but I managed to tear off the cutting edge. I bent the metal back and forth, separating it into two pieces, just like I did in the basement. I held up the piece to the camera.

  Ms. Voss took it from me. “May I say that this is the most ingenious weapon?” She started to touch it to her own hand.

  “Careful, that’s kinda sh—”

  She exclaimed a bit as she drew blood. “Oh, that’s sharp.”

  What a dolt. “Yeah.”

  She set the thing down and continued, “What did you do with this?”

  I swallowed. I didn’t exactly want to go in to the part where I let Wesley stick his tongue down my throat. “She had a cousin, this guy. He came into the basement when she wasn’t home. I cut him with that, surprised him, and then I ran out and locked the door.”

  Lucy Voss nodded a few times. “Can you tell us what happened after you got out of the basement?”

  “I went upstairs and tried to get out of the house.” My heartbeat sped up. Just talking about it brought it all back. I was beginning to wonder if this interview was a good idea.

  She frowned, but not like a real, ugly frown. More like a pensive, thoughtful one that didn’t detract from her looks. I wondered how long she’d practiced that in the mirror. “Was there someone else in the house you encountered?”

  I nodded. “The daughter of the woman.”

  “Did you have to attack the daughter as well?”

  I vehemently shook my head. Telling America I beat up a kid would not help my sales whatsoever; I knew that, even though she was the one who killed her mother. “I … I was able to get her in the basement stairway and lock her in as well.” I swallowed. “She wasn’t hurt.” I couldn’t exactly say the same for her flute.

  Lucy Voss shook her head. “So amazing you were able to escape on your own, with your injury.” She glanced at her notes. “And then the woman, known only to you as Peg, came home.”

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Lucy Voss prompted me. “What happened then?”

  I hesitated. Did I want America to know what I had done? Hell, they already had the news version. They might as well get the actual truth. “I took a knife from the kitchen and planned to defend myself.” I straightened up in my chair and lifted my chin. “I just wanted to get home.”

  “And then a state patrolman was alerted to your situation, and the woman was shot with his weapon during a struggle, correct?”

  “But he didn’t shoot her.” I didn’t know how many details were out. I wished I had asked. “The girl got the gun.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that.” The reporter looked at her notes and seemed to pause before asking, “And now that you know who she is, does that change things? Knowing that perhaps this was on her agenda all along?”

  I frowned and glanced over at Billy. Did they know about the novelist boot camp? That Peg and I had crossed paths before? He didn’t look shocked. I shook my head and decided to play dumb. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  The reporter said, “Peg, as you call her, is Judith Margaret Cutler. You weren’t aware of that?”

  Judith Margaret Cutler. Something about it seemed familiar. But why should that mean anything to me? I shook my head. “I don’t know what…”

  My words faded as Lucy Voss held up a paperback copy of The Quest for the Coven.

  My mouth dropped open.

  “J. M. Cutler is the author of this young adult novel, which was published about six months after Livvy’s own novel, The Caul and the Coven.”

  I gripped the edge of the chair with my one good hand. “What the hell?” My heartbeat throttled up. I had been worried about my side of the story, that people might feel sorry for Peg since she was dead. And I could only imagine what Peg considered to be her side of the whole story. She’d been vilified on the Internet, thanks to my fans. Whether she was guilty of plagiarism or not. But this revelation meant that I was on even more solid footing where my side of the story was concerned. Not only had Peg been aware of who I was, she held a long-standing grudge against me. “Billy? Did you know this?”

  The reporter rolled her eyes and did a slashing motion across her throat. “We’ll cut that. Let’s go back.”

  “No.” I didn’t want the country to see my reaction to the discovery that not only had my abductor caused me bodily harm and mental anguish over the past few days, but she had caused me considerable stress when her book came out long before this all happened. Lucy Voss was not getting her freaking scoop. Not from me, anyway. “No way. I’m done.” I tore the microphone off my shirt and threw it at her feet. “This interview is over.” I flung myself out of the chair. “Billy! When did you find out?!” I stomped over to where he was pretending to be busy on his phone. “Billy!”

  He sighed and met my gaze. “Yes. I was recently made aware and—”

  “And you didn’t bother to tell me?” I waved a hand at the reporter. “You set this all up knowing that she’d tell me who Peg was? How could you do that?”

  Billy said, “Don’t you see? This isn’t just a random crazy person.”

  Mom added, “This makes it a real story, sweetie.”

  “It’s not a story! It’s my life!” The tears had finally arrived in the form of a knot in my throat. “I’m not doing this, not now. And I don’t want any of that airing.”

  Dad took my arm.

  Lucy Voss had come up behind me. “We can continue whenever you’re ready.”

  I shook my head. “I’m done.” Then I ran inside, up the stairs to my room, and slammed the door. Then, only then, did I let the tears come.

  {22}

  FIRST MOM CAME knocking on my door, then Dad, then Billy. I refused to open it for any of them. Then Lucy Voss actually tried. “Olivia, we can do this interview your way. We don’t have to talk about J. M. Cutler if you don’t want to.”

  I snapped up my middle finger and shoved it in the air at the door. “Go away,” I whispered.

  Finally, she did.

  There was only one person I wanted to talk to. Only one person I wanted to see. Rory. I picked up the frame with his photo and kissed it. Then I turned on my laptop and Skype and clicked on the photo of Rory and VIDEO CALL. The thing beeped, but I quickly cut it off.

  No. I didn’t want to Skype.

  That wasn’t good enough. Not nearly. I deserved more. I wanted to see Rory in person. Face to face. I wanted to cry on his shoulder about this whole episode, not slobber on my laptop while he watched from across the country.

  I stayed in my room until I was pretty sure everyone had left, and then I opened my door and listened. Mom and Dad were talking in the kitchen, but I heard no one else. I tiptoed down the stairs and stood by the kitchen door. Definitely only them. I stepped inside. “Where’s Billy?”

  They stopped talking. Mom said, “I had no idea about any of that. About that woman being that plagiarist.”

  I asked again, “Where’s Bil
ly?”

  Dad said, “Hotel. He wants to come see you later.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, he can wait.”

  “Sweetie, are you hungry?” asked Mom.

  I shook my head. “I want to go to Chicago.”

  Dad frowned.

  Mom shook her head. “You just got back, you’re still recovering. We could take a vacation next week maybe—”

  “It’s not a vacation,” I said. “I want to see my boyfriend.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged a glance. She said, “That boy you’ve been Skyping with?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but he’s not just the boy I’ve been Skyping with. I love him, and he loves me. I want to see him in person. I’m tired of waiting.”

  Mom said, “You’re not going alone. I’ll book flights for us.”

  I threw my hand up. “Fine. I don’t care if you go with me. I just want to go. And I am going.”

  Dad scratched his chin. “What do you even know about this boy?”

  “Everything,” I said. “He’s my age; he’s in a million AP classes.” I sighed. “He’s a good guy, Dad. Trust me.”

  The corner of his lips turned up. “So where in Chicago does he live?”

  I bit my bottom lip. “I’m not exactly sure. We’ve only Skyped.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged another look.

  “Don’t do that!” I yelled. “Why can’t you just help me find him? I just want to go there and surprise him.”

  “We’ll help,” Mom said. “I’m sure Billy’s got people who can—”

  “No!”

  They both looked at me.

  “This is personal! I don’t want Billy involved, or it’ll end up on the news.”

  Dad said, “I’ll do it.”

  I sighed. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He walked over to the phone for the pad of paper there, then grabbed a pen and clicked it. “Go. What’s this boy’s name?”

  “Rory.” I smiled. “Rory Calhoun.”

  Dad laughed. “Okay. But seriously.”

  I frowned. “I am serious.”

  Dad glanced at Mom.

  “Stop it!” I yelled. “Stop exchanging these stupid glances like I’m an idiot.”

  “Sweetie,” said Dad. “You’re not an idiot. It just struck me as funny, because Rory Calhoun was in movies back in the fifties. Your grandmother had a huge crush on him.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well maybe Rory’s mother was a fan or something.”

  “Maybe,” said Mom. “What are his parents’ names?”

  I shrugged. “We don’t talk about his parents.”

  Dad wrote the name down. “So we have a name, no neighborhood or parents. What about school?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other.

  I slammed my hand on the counter. “Stop it!”

  Mom said, “You just don’t seem to know very much about this boy.”

  “I know what I need to know! He is a great listener, and he’s there for me, and we have a lot in common, and he loves me! Those are the things that matter! The rest is just details, for God’s sake!” I took a breath and sat down on a stool. “Please, just help me find him.”

  Dad nodded. “We will. Okay? We will. But it may take a day or so. Okay?”

  I breathed out. “Okay.”

  Mom said, “Just take some time. Relax while your dad figures it out. Can you do that?”

  I nodded.

  “Now, are you hungry?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Starved.”

  After a lunch of Cobb salad and a mint Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich, I retreated to my room. I wanted to tell Mom and Dad I’d decided to put off college, at least for the time being. But since I already had them on edge about Rory—not to mention the whole Today show/J. M. Cutler fiasco—I figured it would be better to wait on that part.

  And there was something else I wanted to know more about. What happened at boot camp that made Peg hate me?

  I went into my closet and dug out a box of papers. I tended to lack organizational skills, and sort of just shoved everything together. There was no chance of anything getting lost that way because I knew exactly where it was, but putting my finger on a specific paper was tough. With my one good hand, I dragged the box out of the closet and over to my bed. I sat down on the carpet, my back against the bed, and began to pull stuff out. The first pile of paper was a draft of The Caul and the Coven.

  I began to skim it.

  I remembered when I began the story. Mom and I were on the flight home from the novelist boot camp in Los Angeles. I was excited as well as anxious. I knew I wanted to start writing, but I was so scared about what would happen if I didn’t succeed. But, of course, the excitement overcame the anxiety, and I started writing an idea that popped into my head.

  By the time we landed at the airport in Redmond, just north of Bend, I had a brief outline written.

  I set that draft on the floor and pulled out another manuscript. It took me six months of revisions to get the story right. And then another month for Billy to agree to represent me. I set that manuscript aside, as well as the next two I dug out. And then, there it was: the red folder like Peg’s.

  I hadn’t looked at it for years.

  I set it in my lap and opened it up. The photograph was at the top, and I put that aside without looking at it. Next were the marked-up pages of my manuscript critiqued by the other participants. I scanned my story. God, it was so lame. Some dumb thing I’d submitted about a boy falling in love with a girl vampire. I had tried to put a spin on Twilight, switch the roles. I shook my head as I paged through the seven copies of it, the ones the other participants had written on. How had I gone from something so stupid to something so brilliant in a matter of hours? I mean, my idea for The Caul and the Coven was so commercial and so right.

  Fate, I guessed. I was meant to write that story.

  I stared at my toes for a moment. When did the exact idea strike me? We were seated in first class on the flight home, I knew that. Mom had a glass of wine, I had a ginger ale, and we shared a boxed meal of crackers and cheese and dried fruit. I shrugged.

  Well, it had been nearly four years.

  I paged through a few more of my manuscript pages and stopped. A note in my handwriting was on someone else’s manuscript page. Weird, because I gave all the other people their manuscripts back. My note read: Make this into twin sisters (maybe living in Portland?) and have the mother be trapped in books instead of jewelry? Could be sooooo cool …

  I quickly skimmed the pages. Twins, a boy and a girl, live with their grandmother in Salem, Massachusetts. In the attic, they discover their mother trapped inside a pendant and decide to go on a journey to collect the matching pendants in order to set her free. At the end of the pages was a note from the author: Thanks so much for reading my pages! I hope you liked them. ☺ JMC

  JMC. Judith Margaret Cutler?

  I froze. Peg.

  I had gotten my inspiration from her manuscript. I had forgotten her, but she had remembered me. And she knew I’d taken her idea, not the other way around.

  The papers fell out of my hand, drifting to the floor.

  I’d taken Peg’s idea, changed a few things, and made it my own. Was it close enough to Peg’s to be stealing? Would anyone think that?

  I grabbed my laptop off my bed and went to Goodreads, quickly typing in The Quest for the Coven by J. M. Cutler.

  I scrolled down the reviews. Most had two stars, maybe three, no real love for the book. I sucked in my breath. Someone had written: Such a total rip-off of The Caul and the Coven. All she did was change a few things. Livvy Flynn should file a lawsuit.

  My heart pounded. “Holy crap.” No wonder Peg was pissed at me. I had turned Peg’s idea into a worldwide success.

  I shook my head. No. No!

  One of the first things I learned about publishing was that beginning writers always wondered whether they should get a copyright before they sent their stories in
to publishers. But ideas can’t be copyrighted. A girl falls in love with a vampire. Anyone in the world could write a story with that premise.

  Peg’s idea: A brother and sister go looking for their lost mother, who is trapped inside an object.

  I shook my head. I didn’t do anything wrong.

  So maybe Peg’s story excerpt had given me an idea, but how much was in those few pages? Certainly not the whole three-book series. Other than the basic premise of two children going on a quest to free their mother, the rest was all from my imagination: all the subplots and romances and dangerous creatures. I had made up the other 99.9 percent of the story; anyone with a brain would agree with that.

  Plus, my book had come out before Peg’s. So the only people who knew would be me and Peg and … the other people in our critique group at the boot camp. But would they remember? I couldn’t recall a single premise of anyone else’s story. I hadn’t even remembered Peg’s.

  And writing was so self-centered: Everyone would have left there the same way I had, ready to start my own story, not giving a crap about anyone I had just met.

  Was anyone at that workshop aware of my success? Unless they lived under a rock, yes. If anyone had suspected anything, drawn the conclusion about the similarities between the stories, wouldn’t they have come forward? Peg herself hadn’t even come forward.

  I sighed. I no longer had to wonder why Peg had it in for me. And that day when she’d shoved me in the bathroom and Ritchie had found me, Peg had said something like, “This is the one I told you about.”

  So Ritchie knew. That was what he meant by backstory.

  What happened if this came out?

  Would people think she had a good enough reason for kidnapping me? Would they think I deserved it?

  Would everyone think I stole her story?

  I sucked in a breath.

  But Peg was dead.

  And my secret was safe.

  Still, after a few moments, I made a phone call to a number I never planned to dial.

  “Ritchie, here.”

  “This is Livvy Flynn.”

  A slight pause. “What can I do for you?”

  “I didn’t say anything to the sheriff about seeing you in the basement.”