Awakening (Lily Dale #1)(60)

“Can we talk tomorrow?” Calla asks, eager, once again, for bed. “Please . . . I’m so exhausted.”

Odelia hesitates. “We can. But there’s something I want to say to you first. Right now.”

“What is it?”

To Calla’s surprise, Odelia grabs hold of her shoulders and leans in to look closely at her. “This is important, okay? You obviously have a gift. And you chose not to tell me . . . for whatever reason. Which I respect. You don’t have to confide in me . . . about most things. But now that you’re here, you’re over your head in something you don’t fully understand. Something that might even be dangerous.”

Calla swallows hard. “Dangerous . . . how?”

“Kaitlyn Riggs was murdered, Calla. And you were given information about her case. The way you chose to share it with her mother . . . well, I know your intentions were good, but I wish you’d come to me first. It takes years to learn how to deal sensitively with people who are grieving. Sometimes it’s still hard for me, and I’ve been at this forever. But what I’m most concerned about is that you could have gotten yourself hurt.”

“How?”

“Kaitlyn’s killer is still out there somewhere.”

Calla nods slowly as a chill slithers down her spine. “Okay. I get it.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Odelia says, giving her a squeeze. “And do me a favor . . . don’t mention this to anyone, okay? You haven’t . . . have you?”

“No. Not a soul.”

“Good.” Odelia smiles. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. You just . . . have a lot to learn. But you’re in the right place. And it’s a good thing you’re staying. I hope you haven’t changed your mind.”

Calla hesitates. Has she?

“No,” she says at last, feeling as though a wall has come down between them. “I haven’t changed my mind, Gammy.”

Odelia smiles.

A few hours later, Calla wakes from a fitful sleep. It’s happening again, God help her.

The only way we’ll learn the truth is to dredge the lake.

She refuses to open her eyes, trying desperately to slip back into unconsciousness. Maybe if she could just finish the dream. . . .

But it’s useless. There’s nothing to do but open her eyes, knowing what she’ll see on the face of the brand-new clock, which she plugged in and set before climbing into bed earlier. She also pulled all the picture frames out of the drawer, eager to have her room back to normal and to get a good night’s sleep.

So much for that.

Sure enough, the florescent digits of the clock—green, this time, instead of red—read 3:17.

Come on. Did you really think buying a new clock was going to change anything?

Her mind flits back to what happened in Wal-Mart the other day.

Aiyana. The strange woman only she could see, who seemed to be trying to tell her something just before . . .

Just before . . .

With a gasp, Calla sits straight up in bed and looks again at the clock’s glowing green digits. Green. 3:17.

That’s a time of day, yes. But it can also be . . . a date.

3-17. Green. Saint Patrick’s Day.

And—oh! The Irish Cream coffee. The shamrock dish she broke in the store. None of that was an accident. It was all tied to . . .

Saint Patrick’s Day. But why?

Even as she wonders, tinkling music fills the room.

She listens for a moment before realizing that it’s coming from the music box on her nightstand. That doesn’t make sense, but it must be, because she recognizes the melody.

Reaching for the bedside lamp, she flicks it on and blinks, momentarily blinded.

It takes her a moment to grow accustomed to the light. When she does, she sees that the jewelry box is wide open, and the song—why is it so familiar?—is coming from it.

How can it be open?

She distinctly remembers tucking her new Wal-Mart watch inside it earlier, when she found it in the bag that still held the clock. She latched the top of the jewelry box securely.

Now a series of other memories begin to slam into her, each more forceful than the last.

Bam!

Saint Patrick’s Day . . .

Mom baking Irish soda bread.

Bam!

Doorbell rings. Calla answers it. Mom’s coworker is there. The one she saw at the funeral. Todd, or Tom. That’s it. His name was Tom. He had a manila envelope under his arm, she recalls, the memory suddenly as vivid as if it were a movie playing before her eyes.

Tom looks nervous, but he seems as though he’s trying not to act it. Yeah, he’s whistling when she opens the door. He asks for Mom, then leans against the door frame and starts whistling again as Calla goes to find her.

Bam!

The tune he’s whistling is the same one spilling from the music box right now, and . . .

Bam!

“Oh my God.” Calla leaps from the bed and rushes toward the dresser, snatching up the frame she showed Ramona. There’s no mistaking it.

Tom’s face is an older version of the one in the photograph on her dresser.

Bam!

Tom is Darrin.

How can that be? Stunned, still clutching the frame, Calla realizes that the music is growing louder. She turns slowly back to the music box. Rather than winding down, its melody is somehow increasing in tempo and volume.