The Detour (20 page)

The clothes were neatly folded. If the police had searched it, they'd put everything back where they'd found it. I stuck my hand down at the bottom, feeling for the secret compartment with the hidden zipper. I found it and unzipped.

I stuck my hand in, expecting to find it empty. But my fingers closed around the thick black leather book. The red ribbon still marked the last page I'd written nearly a week ago. It seemed untouched.

As though no one had found it.

I shut the journal.

My secrets were still secret.

But then how did Peg know those things about me? The hair pulling? And how did Wesley know the things he said about Rory? He knew exactly when we Skyped.
He quoted me the line that Rory always used to sign off, for God's sake.
I walked back to the table. “What's the address?”

“I don't see how this will help—”

“Dad! Tell me the address!”

He slid the piece of paper over just as I heard a familiar beep from upstairs. Skype.

“That's him! That's Rory now!”

Without looking at it, I crumpled the address in my hand as I tore up the stairs, wincing when I brushed my arm against the banister. I ran down the hall to my room. My laptop was on my bed, and I quickly clicked
ANSWER WITH VIDEO
.

“Rory?”

Silence. The familiar black square sat in the middle of the screen.

“Rory? You there? Can you see me? I've missed you so much. I'm coming to see you!”

And then it flickered.

Did he get his camera fixed? Was I finally going to get to see him and prove everyone wrong?

“Rory, I'm so glad—”

My words dropped away as a person appeared on the screen.

An unsmiling Wesley.

“No. No no no no.” I shook my head as tears filled my eyes. My hands trembled. I glanced down at the crumpled paper in my hand and unfolded it.

613 Daisy Lane. Nimrod, Oregon.

Peg's address.

My stomach clenched, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.

That was why he sounded familiar.

I clapped my hand over my mouth.

Nooooooooooo.

I
loved
Rory. And he loved
me.

He thought I was beautiful. He told me so.

I covered my face with my hands.

But it was all fake. Rory was merely Wesley pretending, toying with me, telling me what I wanted to hear. That meant …

He didn't love me.

He didn't think I was beautiful.

And I was terrified that no one ever would.

I lowered my hands. Wesley was still there.

My skin crawled at the sight of him, but I had to know. “Why aren't you in jail?”

“For what? Peg was crazy. And they found me locked in the basement, bleeding. I cooperated completely.”

“Why did you help her?”

“Peg was obsessed with you. She offered to pay me to hack into your e-mail and Facebook, but I had already gotten in trouble for that. So then I came up with a better idea. Create someone you trusted and would talk to. Maybe spill some secrets to.” He sounded proud.

“Rory.” The name caught in my throat.
Don't cry, don't cry.

He nodded. “And I had to babysit for Peg every Sunday anyway, so I brought my laptop and did the Skypes at her house.”

So much made sense. Flute Girl hated me on sight because she already hated me. She had some weird kind of crush on her cousin and must have known he Skyped with me. Maybe she hated that he sent her to bed so that he could spend time with me.

But I didn't want it to make sense! I didn't want this, the lie, to be the truth.

There had to be something—anything—that would make it not be true. “But I have his picture.” I hated the tinge of whine in my voice.

“I got it off an online yearbook in the Bay Area. The rest is fake. Got the name from an old movie on television.”

Dad was right.

My throat got thick. I swallowed, trying to hold off the sobs.

Wesley shook his head. “When I found out you were in Peg's basement…”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Did you ever think about calling the police?”

He looked off in the distance for a moment. “I owed Peg a lot. She paid for my lawyer when I got in trouble before.” He sighed. “Blood is blood, man.”

I disconnected and began to cry.

Rory wasn't real. He didn't love me. He didn't think I was beautiful.

That was the truth. Whether it scared me or not, I had to face it.

I heaved the picture frame against the wall, glass tinkling as it fell. I carefully extracted the picture and ripped Rory into pieces that drifted to the floor.

Then I deleted my Skype.

I'd been so wrong.

Peg could still hurt me.

I bawled and pounded my fist on the desk.

I hated her.

Eventually, the tears stopped. I sniffled and wiped my eyes.

But did the blame lie completely with her?

With Wesley?

They set the trap.

But it wouldn't have worked without me.

Why had I been so willing to start an online relationship when I had barely talked to a boy in real life since middle school?

I went into the bathroom for a box of tissues.

Other girls would have had a boyfriend, or at least someone they liked. Chances are, they would have blown off a guy on the Internet because they had real people in their lives.

But I had no one. No friends. Certainly no boyfriend.

Rory was exactly what I wanted. Someone who said exactly what I wanted to hear. I only had to deal with him on Sunday nights; I was always in control.

Rory had been perfect for someone like me because, truthfully, there was something that scared me even more than finding out Rory wasn't real and didn't love me or think I was beautiful.

My ultimate fear—which was probably a holdover from all those years of being a victim—lay in granting someone real the power to love me or
not
, think me beautiful or
not
.

Handing someone the capacity to hurt me was the real terror.

And that was why Wesley and Peg hit pay dirt.

Anyone else would have been skeptical, blown it off in favor of the real people in their lives.

I was such an easy target, dying for an easy relationship because I didn't want the inconvenience of a real person who might not do things as I wanted him to.

If I stayed at home, I would remain that target. Always wanting a relationship that couldn't hurt me. Someone else could just as easily dupe me again because I hadn't learned a thing.

That couldn't happen.

As scary as it was, I had to put myself back into real life.

Eventually, I had to get out. I had to go to college.

There was no good reason to continue being afraid to put myself out there. I had survived not only Peg, but my childhood. There was also no good reason to keep feeling guilty about coming through the other side in basically one piece.

Peg didn't die by my hand, but ultimately, her demise had something to do with me. My actions contributed.

But I had paid for that, hadn't I?

First, by my time in her basement.

And second, with Rory.

There was no need for me to feel guilty.

I would have scars forever because of Peg.

But that woman had brought it on herself. She could have called 911 when they found me. She could have made sure I was safe, then confronted me about everything.

But she didn't.

And she was dead.

And Flute Girl was motherless.

None of that was my fault.

Which left only one thing I should feel bad about. And there was an easy way to get that off my mind.

I blew my nose, then picked up my phone and called Billy.

He answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

“I'll do the interview under one condition.”

Billy's words were quick and loud. “What? Anything!”

“Got a pen?” I picked up the scrap of paper with Peg's address on it and dictated.

“Liv, what do you want me to do?”

“I need you to send a new flute there. The best money can buy.” Then I clicked
END
and tossed the phone on the bed.

“There. Done. Now move on.”

 

Epilogue

IT'S A SATURDAY
afternoon in January, halfway through my second week of college. Mom and Dad agreed to let me reapply for the winter term. I did the
Today
show interview but didn't tell all, in case I do decide to write a book about it. And then I spent the rest of the summer finishing the third novel of my series and the fall on my last tour for a while.

My hope was to start up another series right after that, so I could stay home a while longer. But I sat for the better part of a week, staring at the blank screen of my computer.

Tons of ideas floated around in my head, and I started several times, but nothing stuck. There seemed to be no point in putting off school any longer.

I had no more excuses for staying out of the real world.

So after the first of the year, I packed up my black Honda Civic with no vanity plates—I felt the need for a less flashy replacement—and headed to Eugene.

I don't know when—if—I'll start another novel. I kind of like school, my classes. I'm surprised that I do, considering I haven't been in a classroom since eighth grade. I'm still not putting myself out there much. Maybe I'm waiting to find someone who has something in common with me. I seem to be the only one on my floor actually from Oregon. This place is like Cal State Eugene.

But I guess it's enough that I'm here, someplace other than home.

Small steps.

I'm in the dorm lounge, a space of plush chairs and couches in bright colors. Everyone else is at the basketball game, which is why I actually came out of my room.

Groups of students still get my heart pounding. I want to belong, but it's so much easier to not try. Also safer.

I'm on a couch, reading “The Pit and the Pendulum” for a class.

“Livvy?”

I look up and see a girl from down the hall. I stifle a groan. Her mailbox is next to mine. Once when we got our mail at the same time, she recognized my name on an envelope, and now she won't leave me alone. I avoid her whenever possible, but now she has me trapped.

She smiles and hands me an envelope. “Got this in my mail by mistake.”

“Thanks.” Without looking at it, I set it beside me on the couch.
Go away.

She waits a moment, for what I'm not sure.

I hold up my book. “I've got a test Monday.”

“Well, see you later.” She leaves and I go back to reading.

A deep voice says, “Not my favorite of Poe's.”

My heart stops.

Standing in front of me is a dark-haired, blue-eyed guy, dressed in jeans and a green T-shirt with a yellow
O
.

Rory.

I swallow.

Obviously
not
the fake Rory invented by Wesley. But this non-Rory looks so much like that picture I ripped up so many months ago that I can't breathe.

“Didn't mean to startle you.”

On second thought, he doesn't look as much like Rory as I thought. Maybe that picture has dulled in my mind, but this guy's jaw seems more square, his eyes a darker blue. Plus, the guy standing in front of me is
real.

“I recognize you from class.” He points at the literature textbook on the cushion next to me.

He's in my class? How have I never seen him?

Because I sit in the front row and never look around.

Despite my big plans for taking control of my life, I am still hiding and shy. My chance to start fresh is staring me in the face, and I am letting it slip by.

Grow some, Livvy.

Grab on to life and start living.

I smile. Holy crap, what did one even say to an actual living, breathing guy who isn't separated from me by half a country and a nonfunctioning webcam?

What do you say to someone you want to get to know?

I have no clue.

And what comes out of my mouth is something I've been thinking for days but haven't had the nerve to say to anyone. “So our prof sure likes to listen to himself talk.”

“Right?” He picks up the envelope and my textbook and plops down beside me. “It's like,
Shut up already, dude
.” He grins, revealing dimples, and then sticks out his hand. “I'm Nick.”

His warm, strong hand around mine sends a shiver straight up my arm. Yet I manage to say, in a somewhat normal tone of voice, “Livvy. And I'm really glad to meet you.”

I'm disappointed when he releases my hand, but then he says, “Pretty quiet around here today. Want to go to dinner later? Hear they're making that mac and cheese with the bread crumbs on top.”

“Okay.” A rush of heat runs up my neck.

“Meet here at five?”

I nod, unable to speak.

“Cool.” He gets to his feet, and the envelope flutters to the floor. He hands it to me. “See you later.”

I smile and watch him go, my heart pounding. I glance at the envelope. My name and address are typed, and there's no return address. I open it and pull out a folded sheet of paper. Something falls to the floor.

I lean over to look.

Next to my foot is a dead wasp.

I kick it away and scream, then slap a hand over my mouth. I grab my books and run back to my room. I realize I haven't looked at the paper. I sink down on my bed. My hands are shaking so bad that I have trouble unfolding it at first.

There, in childish handwriting, someone has scrawled:

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I crumple up the paper and throw it to the other side of the room.

It's just a sick joke
, I think
. A terrible prank. It doesn't mean anything. Someone saw the interview and thought to have some fun at my expense.