Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(67)

“Where?” she asks, frowning.

He motions to a window to his left. There’s a clear view of the back of the house. “Out there,” he says.

The backyard is not unlike the area where Farren taught me to shoot—all desert for as far as the eye can see. Nothing was ever built behind the houses in this section of the subdivision.

Haven is still frowning, and Rick swiftly provides her with more details of his plan. I guess he’s hoping to give her confidence that she can do this. “I’ll set up some targets away from the house. The .38 is easy to use.” He smiles at Haven. “You’ll do fine. We’ll make it fun.”

I give Haven a reassuring glance, hoping to bolster her confidence. I remind her, “It’s not like you have to worry about accidentally shooting any neighbors. We don’t have any, since all the houses around us are vacant.”

Haven chuckles a little and says, “That’s certainly true.”

Rick nudges the gun toward her once more, and this time she takes it. Holding it gingerly, she says sadly, “Wish I would’ve had one of these the night I was abducted.”

“I think we all wish that,” Rick replies.

Amen, I think.



The next morning, Rick is setting up targets in the backyard. Not close to the house, I notice when I glance out my upstairs-bedroom window. He and Haven are several hundred yards away.

When the shooting lesson gets underway, I step into the bathroom so I can take a long shower. Afterward, I slip a navy V-neck tee over my head and then tug a pair of bright white cotton shorts up my very tan legs. I twist my hair into a bun and pin it to the top of my head. I haven’t worn my hair up in a while, but the weather warrants it today. It’s exceptionally hot. Even the air-conditioned house is not nearly as cool as usual.

A few minutes later finds me down in the kitchen. I’m throwing together a quick breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs. With a piece of toast hanging out of my mouth, a plate of eggs in one hand, and a juice glass in the other, I kick out a chair and plop down at the table. I eat my breakfast listening to the echo of shots being fired in the distance. All the while, my .38 rests next to my juice glass.

Rick never divulged why Farren was coming back early, and I now wonder what could be the problem. Farren seemed pretty set on finding Eric so he could make him pay for the things he did to Haven. What would pull Farren away from a job unfinished? And what kind of problem could have arisen so quickly?

Without more info I can’t come up with any answers. But by the time I’m finished eating, I’m quite distracted anyway, by, of all things, the heat. It’s stifling hot in the house. Beads of sweat are beginning to roll down my back.

“Jeez,” I mumble, “why is the air conditioning not coming on?”

The air hasn’t come on since it last cycled over an hour ago. On such a scorching-hot day, the air should be running almost continuously. Fully aware that a fuse could have blown, I get up from the table and search for a flashlight. In a drawer by the sink I locate one. It’s not in the best condition, but it will do. I head to where the fuse box is located…in the basement. Actually, I reluctantly walk in the direction of the narrow door in the corner of the kitchen.

Ugh, I hate basements.

Most homes in the Southwest don’t have basements, but since this one does, when I finally reach the door, I send up a prayer that this particular basement won’t be dark and creepy like the ones in the eastern half of the country usually are.

Unfortunately, when I swing the door open as wide as it goes, I can’t determine much on the state of affairs. “Shit,” I mumble, “it’s awfully dark down there.”

I flip the switch on the wall, but, just like in a horror movie, nothing happens.

Great.

I turn on my flashlight and aim it down the steps. The batteries are almost dead, so the anemic beam doesn’t illuminate much.

After some deep breathing to calm my frazzled nerves, I close the door and start down the stairs. With every step I take, I can’t help but recall the movie Farren and I went to see in Oklahoma City. Shuddering, I hope and pray no dark, shadowy figures grab me from under the steps like they did to the lead character.

Taking the final few steps gingerly, I breathe a sigh of relief. “You’ve made it down the stairs without incident,” I say, congratulating myself.

Turning, I direct the flashlight beam to the heart of the basement.

And when I see what—or rather, who—is in the center of the room, I gasp and reach for my gun.

But, shit, I don’t have it on me. I left it up in the kitchen on the table. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I have three options: scream, use the flashlight as a weapon, or run.

I do all three, in that order.

Unfortunately for me, my scream dies in my throat, the flashlight falls short of the man I’ve flung it at, and, when I try to run back up the stairs, I am violently grabbed.

Violently grabbed and pulled to the one person I have no doubt is here to hurt me—Eric.





I struggle. I try to scream. I scratch and bite. But nothing I do makes a bit of difference.

Eric holds me in place, hand over my mouth.

I am so screwed. But I decide I’m not going down without more fighting. Farren would expect nothing less from me. Same with Haven. Most importantly, I will never again be a helpless victim like I was freshman year at that Halloween party.