The Detour Read Online Free Page B

he could see me now.
    I blew out a breath and shut my eyes. I needed to rest. I needed to eat. I needed to get strong before I could try to escape.
    I opened my eyes and told my reflection, “I will. I will.”
    Standing there, leaning on the sink with one good hand, I continued, “You need a plan. A good one. You need … let’s see. A list. You need a list.”
    My stomach growled.
    Passing up the spaghetti had been seriously stupid on my part. I added it to my growing list of regrets, the first of which was, obviously, ever leaving home in the first place.
    I started to feel light-headed, so I made my way back to the bed and gingerly lay back down. I breathed out and took comfort in the softness of the bedspread and the mattress, willing my heartbeat to slow and my mind to relax.
    â€œYou always dwell on the bad. Find something good.”
    I turned my head so my cheek was on the pillow. I sniffed.
    That was one thing to be grateful for. My captors could have been less hygienic, and left me lying on a dirt floor somewhere, with a bucket for a toilet and vermin crawling all over me as I slept. Instead, I was lying on a nice bed with covers and a decent pillow that smelled like a sunny day in a meadow.
    Lucky me.
    â€œTomorrow. Tomorrow I make a list and plan my escape.”
    I shut my eyes.
    For now, rest …

 
    {4}
    THE SUN STREAMING in the windows woke me up. My first movements made me gasp; in addition to the jab of pain in my shoulder, the rest of my body was so stiff and sore that even blinking hurt.
    My exhaustion should have been sufficient to knock me out for the night, but sleep had been fitful. The pain in my shoulder was smothering, and I had to lie absolutely still, taking long, slow breaths, to keep it from consuming me.
    I refused to cry out to Flute Girl and her witch of a mother. They knew that one simple squeeze of my shoulder would bring me to my knees. Which, apparently, was exactly where they wanted me.
    Really?
    But why?
    I had tried not to go there, to breach the constant barrage of whys : Why didn’t they call 911? Why did Flute Girl hit me with a branch? Why did they bring me into their house? And why the hell are they keeping me locked in the basement?
    I sighed, deep enough that I had to grit my teeth and hold my breath until the pain passed. I reached up with my right arm and ran my fingers lightly over my bad shoulder until I felt what I was looking for. A lump.
    My shoulder was dislocated. I would have bet money on it. I’d researched the injury for a book once, and it mentioned pain with movement and also a bump or lump. Problem was, there was no way for me to put it back in myself, and I knew they weren’t about to help me. The best thing would be to stabilize it somehow. I should have been icing it and taking Tylenol or Advil or freaking Vicodin . But those options weren’t exactly available to me at the moment.
    As long as I lay on my good side, at least the shoulder was elevated a bit.
    My lips were dry, and my throat was parched, but I needed to psych myself up to make the trek to the bathroom.
    Until then, I would work on my list.
    First things first: escape route. That had to be first, right?
    No, maybe not. Because something might prevent me from getting to the escape route. Or be in my way while I was taking the escape route. I would have to drag something over to the window to stand on, and I might get interrupted while doing that.
    So … I needed a weapon.
    My eyes wandered around the room. There were shelves … books … papers on the desk.…
    Crafty crap. Scrapbooking supplies.
    Ten to one they had already removed any sharp objects.
    So a rainbow glitter gel pen maybe? Jabbed in an eye?
    But that brought up a new question.
    What was the purpose of my weapon? The end goal? Exactly how far was I willing to go?
    Was I aiming to simply stun?
    Temporarily disable?
    Permanently maim?
    Would I kill if I had