THE SHERIFF HIMSELF came to my hospital room, and Mom stayed in there, more as a lawyer than a parent, it seemed. But he simply asked me to tell my story and interrupted me occasionally for details, all of which I provided, because I was telling the truth, after all. He didn’t make me feel like a criminal because, of course, I wasn’t one. The only omissions were when I peed my pants and when Wesley saw me naked in the window. He didn’t ask me anything about Officer Ritchie, so I didn’t offer.
I was torn about whether to call him out for seeing me and not helping. But I knew how evil Peg was. Maybe he had been a victim of hers as well. Something told me to let it go.
I could tell by the way the sheriff asked some of the same questions in different ways that he was looking for lies. But that’s the thing about the truth: It gets told the same way each time. After an hour of questioning, my throat was sore from talking, and he seemed convinced I wasn’t lying about any of it.
A nurse came in with a wheelchair. “Hospital policy.”
I grabbed the Macy’s bag and my phone off the bedside table. A piece of paper fluttered down. The nurse picked it up and handed it to me.
Ritchie’s phone number. I shoved it in the bag.
Outside, my smile was ear to ear as I climbed in the passenger seat of my dad’s SUV. Mom sat in the back. We stopped at a drive-through for a burger, fries, and a vanilla malt for me.
When we got to the house, several vehicles were at the end of the driveway. “Who is that?” I asked.
“Press,” said Mom. “Get down.”
I ducked below the windows until Dad got through the gates.
Inside, I went up to my room and tried to Skype Rory. No response.
I took a long bath, and then tried him again. Nothing.
Exhausted, I climbed into bed. But I couldn’t sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I had to snap them back open, to make sure I wasn’t in a basement, trapped by a crazy woman.
I got back up and double-checked the locks on the windows, then opened up the curtains and let the moon shine in. I crawled back into bed and stared out at the night.
At some point, I finally nodded off.
When I awoke, I was afraid to open my eyes.
Could the last twenty-four hours have been a dream? Was I still in that basement? A prisoner?
I ran my hand over my left shoulder. Immobilized in a sling. A sling not made out of my cashmere sweater.
Slowly, I opened my eyes.
A white matelassé duvet covered me. Beyond my feet stood the hand-carved footboard of the madrone bed I’d special ordered from a local artist. I lifted my hand above my head and ran my fingers over the smooth headboard.
I sighed.
Home.
The sun streamed through the large window with the red-cushioned window seat. My gaze went over to my matching madrone dresser, my glass-topped writing desk, my two laptops, and expensive ergonomic office chair. The framed eight-by-ten enlargement of Rory’s profile picture.
I breathed out. Everything would be fine. And as soon as I got in touch with Rory, everything would be perfect.
I slid out of bed and sat on the window seat, gazing out at the Cascade Mountains, which were still partially snow-topped from a heavier than normal snowfall and late arrival of spring.
I cranked open the window a bit. The day was sunny, in the seventies. A perfect day to be outside on the veranda and do nothing but relax. I used the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I’d barely changed into a pair of denim shorts and a black Oregon T-shirt when the doorbell rang.
“Olivia!” yelled my mom.
Downstairs, I walked into our massive kitchen. My agent, Billy, was seated on a high stool at the island, in his usual three-piece suit and tie, with black horn-rimmed glasses bordering on geek, yet chic.
“Billy!”
He lifted his hands in the air, and in his loud British accent exclaimed, “There’s my girl!”
I grinned and stepped into his arms.
“I am so sorry I couldn’t get here before now.” He squeezed me for a solid minute before letting me go. He set a hand on either side of my face, and his forehead wrinkled. “I don’t even think we want to cover that up.”
“Cover what up?” I climbed up onto the stool next to him.
He took a sip from the tumbler of iced tea in front of him. “Your face.”
“Oh, thanks.” I rolled my eyes, a little bit insulted.
Billy laughed. “No, my dear, not what I meant. Your war wounds. We don’t want to cover them up.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of, we’d better get ready.”
“Ready for what?” I asked.
Billy smiled. “An interview for the Today show.”
“Oh my God.” I put my hand to my mouth. “Are you serious?”
Mom laughed.
“You knew?” I glanced from her to Billy.
Mom nodded. “The Today show! Can you believe it?”
Did I really want anyone to see me? “I’m not ready.”
“You need to do this.” Mom looked over at Billy. “We thought it would be better than waiting.”
Billy said, “There is already so much speculation, especially with that woman dead. Better to get your side of the story out there.”
As much as I didn’t want to do the interview, they were right. I wiped my eyes and slid off the chair, landing on the cool, tile floor in my bare feet. “I need to change. How much time do we have?”
Billy said, “About forty-five minutes. They happened to have one of their feature reporters in Portland, and she’s on her way.”
“What should I wear? What should I say?” I didn’t even know where to start.
“First, calm down. You’re recovering from a terrible ordeal. And you have nothing to hide. You are the victim, no matter what happened to that woman. She was in the wrong, and you are confident because you have the truth on your side. No need for pretense. So keep it simple and casual.”
I climbed back up on the stool.
He glanced at my shorts and shirt. “Less casual than that.”
I rolled my eyes and got back down.
He smiled. “And you’ll just answer her questions with candor and honesty. Be yourself. Because the public will love who you are: a teenager who survived a nightmare situation.”
“What, and then they’ll want to run out and buy my books?”
He pointed up. “From your lips to God’s ear.”
I touched my hair. “And what about—”
“Something soft that makes you look young. Vulnerable. We want as much sympathy as possible.” His words bubbled out. “And tears are good! Don’t worry if you start to cry.”
“I’d hate to see how happy you’d be if I really got hurt.”
“Oh, stop.” Billy patted my hand. “We need to make the most of the attention. That’s all.”
Mom said, “I could French braid your hair.”
I didn’t want my hair like that ever again. “Just a ponytail maybe.”
“I’ll tell them to go light on the makeup,” said Billy.
Upstairs I took a shower; then Mom dried my hair and put it back in a low ponytail. I dressed in jeans, flip-flops, and a white linen sleeveless button-down. I chose a pair of silver hoop earrings and looked at myself in the mirror. Definitely almost back to normal.
When I returned downstairs, a cameraman was setting up out on the veranda, which afforded the same fabulous view of Mount Bachelor as out my window. A thin blond woman in a gray sheath dress and high black pumps held out her hand to me. “I’m Lucy Voss, NBC News.”
She looked familiar as I shook her hand. “I feel underdressed.”
Ms. Voss smiled. “Oh, don’t feel that way. You look great, Olivia.” She beckoned to another woman, who had long dark hair and purple lipstick and wore a flimsy black tank dress and black combat boots. “Delilah, she’s ready.”
Delilah patted the chair in front of her. “Over here.”
I sat down, and she rubbed something nice-smelling into my skin. Her eyes were brown, golden circles bordering the pupils. She said, “We won’t do a whole makeover or anything. Your agent wants people to see the truth.”
“The truth?”
Delilah nodded. “You’ve been through something, and you came out the other side. Let the public see what bravery costs.”
Bravery? “I guess I hadn’t thought of myself as brave.”
She smiled. “Maybe you should start.”
Delilah plucked my brows a bit, then added a touch of mascara, and put something on my lips. She stepped back and frowned, then relaxed. “Good to go.”
The cameraman took a little more time to get the lighting right before he waved me over. I sank into a cushy green chair, Lucy Voss opposite me. She leaned in, fastened a microphone to the collar of my shirt, and said, “Since we’re taping this and have time to edit, I’d rather just ask you questions and have your reactions, instead of prepping you.”
I glanced over at Billy. He was on his phone, but gave me a thumbs-up.
I nodded.
My parents were a few feet away off camera. Dad wore a frown and had his arms crossed, but Mom was grinning. Delilah had disappeared. It was just me and the reporter, plus the camera guy hidden behind his equipment. “I’m ready,” I said.
“Great. I will make an intro segment that tells the basic story, based on the sheriff’s report, so America will know what happened. But we want you to fill us in on how you felt during the ordeal.”
I nodded.
Lucy Voss and the cameraman conferred a bit. Then the camera was rolling, the lights were bright in my eyes, and she asked her first question. “Livvy, America has been captivated by your story, from the first reports that you were missing until you were found. You’re a well-known, bestselling author. This is almost like a Stephen King novel come to life. Tell us, how are you feeling today?”
I smiled and gestured at my shoulder. “Other than having to wear this sling, I’m feeling pretty good.”
“Excellent,” said the reporter. “Can you tell us when you knew you were in trouble?”
In trouble? “Um, I guess when my car flipped. I knew my shoulder was hurt, and I maybe had a concussion. I knew that I needed help. But…” Would America believe me if I told them about Flute Girl? “I guess the worst moment was waking up in that basement. I was in bad shape and didn’t know where I was.”
“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.