FLUTE GIRL WAS still yelling, on a cell phone I’d been too hurried and clueless to notice. I wanted to yank the door open and rip it out of her hand, but knew that was stupid. I had a window of escape that was, statistically, already cranking shut.
I glanced at the doorways on either end of the room. Flute Girl had probably been in bed, so that one led to the bedrooms, best guess. I headed for the other. The hallway was dark, lit only by the thin stream of light from the living room lamp. I felt for a switch, but didn’t find one. I made my way down the hallway, my hand on the wall.
The adrenaline running through my body masked the pain in my shoulder. I came to a door and flung it open. Cooler air hit me, and the feeling of a larger space. It reeked of motor oil.
I felt the wall, found a switch, and flipped it.
A single-stall garage with dark stains on the cement floor. I stepped down the one stair and looked on the wall for an opener. A white box was there, and I punched the button. Nothing.
“Come on.” I punched it again. Could those things be locked?
As fast as I could manage, I traversed the hallway back to the living room. As I passed the basement door, there were voices.
Wesley and Flute Girl. Had she let him out?
Bang!
I jumped.
Flute Girl couldn’t find the key! Thank God I’d thought to throw it. Still, as soon as she found it, I’d have more trouble on my hands. That dead bolt probably wouldn’t hold long if Wesley got at it. Quickly, I took the other hallway, feeling the wall as I went. My hand hit a switch, and light flooded the kitchen. Tiled floor, white kitchen cupboards, a red bistro set with a tall table and two chairs, a vase of white peonies neatly dressing the top of it. Just past that was a door with a window facing outside.
“Thank God!”
I’d have to leave barefoot, but at least I’d escape.
I ran to the door and turned the knob. Nothing. There was a push-button lock in the knob, so I turned it again. It was already popped out, unlocked. Up on the side of the door was a dead bolt. I slammed it open and grabbed the knob again, yanking.
Nothing.
Come on!
There was another mechanism farther up. Then I realized it was locked from the outside. I slammed my fist against the window, causing it to rattle. Are you kidding me?
Lights came down the driveway. I ducked. At least I had my weapon and could—
No.
During the scuffle with Flute Girl, I’d dropped my purse in the other room, along with my wax paper cutting edge.
But I didn’t dare face Peg unarmed. I wouldn’t stand a chance.
A wooden block of knives sat on the cupboard. I squatted and made my way over there. I stood up and yanked out a knife with a quiet ting.
The black handle was thick in my hand, the blade odd-shaped and skinny on one end. I swallowed. All that mattered was that it was sharp.
I ran back to the living room.
Downstairs Wesley yelled, “Just look for it, stupid!”
The largest piece of furniture in the room was the couch. I crouched behind it, sliding into the space sideways as far as I could go. My face was nearly flush with the upholstery, which smelled dusty, while my back rested against the wall. Luckily, the lamp was on the other side of the room, leaving me in some serious shadows. Despite the discomfort, my hiding place was sound.
The kitchen door unlocked and opened.
I held my breath.
Rapid footsteps crossed the kitchen floor, then stopped. Something clicked. Did she set something on the counter? Footsteps again, slower this time.
Peg would pass the basement door on her way to me. If Flute Girl had released Wesley by then, Peg would let them out.
And God knows I wouldn’t stand a chance against the three of them.
My best chance—my only chance—was to confront Peg before she got to that door. Before she let them out. I bit my lip and started to slide out.
Wait wait wait.
What if she went down there first?
I could lock her in. I hadn’t heard the kitchen door shut, which meant it was open. Unlocked. There was no jingling of car keys. They were probably still in her car.
I just had to get out the kitchen door and into her car. Then I could get out of there.
Footsteps entered the living room and paused.
I didn’t dare look. She had to be by the basement door. Wesley yelled something and Flute Girl screeched back.
“Where are you guys?” Peg yelled. The dead bolt clunked.
Please please please. Go down there.
The door creaked open.
I shut my eyes and held my breath, listening for her steps on the stairs. Take a step, take a step.
I was poised, ready to spring for that door as soon as she started down those stairs. Should I give her five stairs? I nodded. I waited to begin counting her steps.
Come on, go down. Take a step.
But there was no movement at all.
Leaning sideways, inching over, I aligned my right eye at the very edge of the couch. I went one inch more and peered out.
Peg stood at the door to the basement. She must have changed for her tryst with Officer Ritchie, because her hair was down and curly, and she wore a black tank top and cropped jeans and—
My shoes. My $300 leather ballet flats.
My mouth fell open. The freaking nerve.
Peg’s forehead wrinkled as she stared at something on the floor. I followed her gaze.
Something red.
My purse.
Peg shot a glance at the shelf where I’d discovered it. She walked over and stuck her hand in the space where my book had been and straightened the red folder beside it. Peg asked, “Where are you, Olivia?”
My chest knotted up.
I slid my head back, so that I was completely behind the couch, my forehead pressing against the back. I tried not to breathe in the dust.
She continued, “I know you’re still here because the garage door is broken and you can’t get out the kitchen door without a key.”
I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the knife. Maybe Peg would decide that there was strength in numbers and head down the stairs to get Wesley. But if she didn’t …
The element of surprise could be just as much a weapon as the knife. Combined, I had a chance. I just had to knock her down and get past her. Could I do it? I’d blown it the last time.
I had to get this one right.
I raised the knife.
Don’t screw up again. You can’t.
No.
I wouldn’t.
I took a deep breath and rushed straight toward Peg, screaming as loud as I could.
Completely caught off guard, her eyes widened at the knife, and her mouth fell open. Her hands went up in front just as I charged into her. She stumbled backward and fell over the ottoman, landing on her back.
My legs hit the ottoman, and I tried to stop. But my momentum was too much and carried me forward and over.
I landed on top of her, our faces inches apart.
Peg immediately grabbed my left shoulder and twisted. I cried out and slashed at Peg’s face. She dodged and grabbed for my wrist. I had no way to get a better position and still hold on to the knife, so I slashed out again, as hard as I could, aiming for her shoulder.
At the last second, she moved, causing the full brunt of my swing, which included all my anger and frustration of the past three days, to hit her neck instead.
The blade sank in, the softness yielding easily. I gasped and yanked it out, expecting blood to gush. “Oh my God!” The words were out of my mouth before I even registered what I’d just done.
Peg’s eyes widened. She clutched at her neck.
But …
… the blood was only a trickle, not the river I’d expected.
The knife fell out of my hands and landed with a thump on the floor as I rolled off her and backed away on my butt. “I didn’t mean to!”
Peg slowly sat up, her face draining of color. She wasn’t mortally injured, obviously, but she wasn’t 100 percent.
With the help of the chair nearest me, I got to my feet. “I’m leaving now.”
She struggled to get up, just as someone touched my back.
I screamed and lashed out with my good arm.
Officer Ritchie quickly grabbed me. “You’re fine.”
“No! Let me go! I want to go!”
He didn’t release his grip on my arm, but he didn’t tighten it, either, or make a move to subdue me further. “Miss Flynn, you’re fine. I came to make sure she let you go.”
I stopped struggling.
Was he for real?
Peg said exactly the thing I was thinking. “What?”
He glanced down at Peg. “You have to let her go. I’m letting her go.”
Peg braced a hand on the ottoman and got to her feet, her other hand still pressed to her wound. Rivulets of blood ran down her neck. “You can’t.”
“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.