The Detour Read Online Free Page A

responders. Didn’t Oregon have some sort of Good Samaritan law? Whatever it was, they had broken it. No phone call made it clear they meant to do me harm.
    Which meant it was me against them.
    â€œSo no more crying.”
    I swallowed, wiped my nose, and sniffled.
    â€œNo more.” I shuddered. “You have to be strong if you’re going to fight.” I kicked myself for not taking the food, because I was hungry. And thirsty.
    â€œYou’re smart. Do what you do best.”
    I’d written my first novel fairly quickly, going where the story led me. But since then, I researched each new book. And then I outlined, meticulously. Sometimes I spent months on the outline and then whipped out the novel itself in a few weeks. I didn’t mind spending time and effort on the preparation, and maybe that fortitude would be my salvation.
    I needed to plot. To plan. Sure, at the moment they had the upper hand physically, but there was no doubt in my mind that I was smarter. I had to think my way out of this.
    Mrs. Dixon had mentioned dinner. I had no idea what time it was, although it was dark outside. In the summer, that meant it had to be at least eight, possibly nine, maybe even later.
    The windows were small and high up on the wall.
    Could I escape?
    Sucking in my breath at the pain, I slowly sat up and slid over to the side of the bed. Then, forcing myself to take it inch by inch, I grabbed the headboard for support and stood up. I felt wobbly, so I sat back down until my head felt clear enough to try again.
    I stood up, took a few deep breaths. Woozy, for sure, but better than earlier. I shuffled to the closest window. It was about a foot over my head, but I could see outside. The glow from a big yard light illuminated part of a white-flowered bush and the side of a red wooden building of some kind.
    Given the height and size of the window, I had to be in a basement. Getting through the window, if I could figure out how to do it, would be a tight squeeze.
    Oh, and one more thing:
    Getting out that window is gonna hurt.
    And so would what came after: trying to find my way to the road and then walking, for who knew how far, barefoot. And they might come after me, try to drag me back.
    I would have to be prepared to fight.
    Climbing through the window, escaping, maybe having to fight my way out of there … all of that would take strength, strength I did not have yet.
    Plus, I wasn’t stupid. I’d seen it time and time again in movies: The captive tries to escape right away, before she thinks things through. She discovers her captor has left her an out, an opening, and she takes it. But she always takes it too soon, and she always gets caught. I supposed she has to—otherwise the movie would be over in the first half hour.
    But that was a mistake I was not going to make. I knew I might only get one shot, so I was going to make sure my escape was foolproof.
    I was going to take my time.
    Since I was finally standing, I had a better view of the room. There was another door. At a glacial pace, holding my bad arm motionless with my good, I limped over and pulled it open.
    A small bathroom.
    Which I hadn’t realized I seriously needed until I noticed the toilet. It took me a while, given that I was minus one arm. I sat there, looking at everything. Save for a plastic pump bottle of Bath & Body Works coconut lime hand soap, there wasn’t much. When I finished, I slurped water from the faucet for a long time.
    Then I looked at myself in the cheap metal mirror. My dark hair had drifted out of the pretty French braids my mom had done around my head. My face seemed puffy, and there were bruises, probably from where I hit the steering wheel when I crashed. Which reminded me that when all this was over, I would have to write a strongly worded letter to the CEO of Audi about their crap air bags.
    Or maybe the bruise was from when Flute Girl hit me.
    Rory wouldn’t think I was beautiful, not if