Believing (Lily Dale #2) by Wendy Corsi Staub
PROLOGUE
Monday, September 3
Erie, Pennsylvania
11:42 p.m.
She realizes, the moment she reaches the dark street and pats the back pocket of her jeans, that she doesn’t have her cell phone.
Great.
What’s she supposed to do now? Go back and look for it?
She turns and looks back at the house. Towering, with turrets, the three-story brick mansion might once have been beautiful. Now occupied by students at nearby Gannon University, the old home’s doors and windows gape wide open, spilling stray people and loud music into the crisp September night. With a new semester just under way—and a party in full swing—there are cars on the lawn and bikes on the porch.
No way am I going back in there.
Not after someone figured out she’s just a high school student and informed the hosts, who quickly—and loudly— kicked her out.
Talk about humiliating.
Why am I even here?
She usually doesn’t go sneaking around behind her parents’ backs, crashing college parties, but her friend Maria— who’s still somewhere inside, flirting with some guy—talked her into it.
Now she’s going to wonder where I am.
Well, too bad. She’s not about to go back in to look for Maria. Or the phone, which she probably didn’t even have with her in the first place. Or even her jacket, which she definitely did have with her and left draped over a chair inside.
Summer’s definitely over, she thinks, wishing she had the jacket now. Shivering in her skimpy pink ribbed tank top, she checks her silver bracelet watch.
It’s almost midnight. The original plan was for her to call her dad to come pick her and Maria up at the pizza-and-wings place around the corner, which is where they’re supposedly hanging out after a movie on this last summer night before they start their senior year.
No phone, no jacket,no Maria . . . now what?
Her parents are going to kill her if she misses her curfew. They’ve been really touchy lately. They totally freaked last week when she bleached her reddish hair blond, right before she had her picture taken with the cheerleading squad for the back-to-school issue of the local paper.
You’d think she had pierced her tongue or gotten a tattoo or something, the way Mom and Dad carried on. If they ever find out she was at a college party . . .
You’d better start walking, she tells herself firmly, tossing her newly blond hair.
Heading away from the lit-up party house, down the dark, deserted, unfamiliar street, she tries not to think about any of the horror movies she’s seen. Naturally, they are all she can think about. Every tree, every parked car, seems to conceal a lurking ax murderer or fiery-eyed demon.
Stop it.You are such a loser.
She turns a corner, and then another. The night is deadly still. Her pink rubber flip-flops make a hollow slapping sound on the concrete sidewalk.
Something else reaches her ears, then: an approaching car. She hears it coming before she sees the headlights swing onto the block.
It seems to slow down as it comes closer, catching her in its bright spotlight with nowhere to hide. Already jittery, she now feels borderline frantic. She walks faster, heart racing.
The car is creeping now, coming up right alongside her. She hears the whir of an electric window being lowered, and a perfectly ordinary-sounding masculine voice calls, “Excuse me, miss? You shouldn’t be out here alone right now. Miss?”
Holding her breath, she turns reluctantly toward the car. A man is behind the wheel.
Her mother always said never talk to strangers, but what is she supposed to do? Ignore him? Anyway, she’s a safe distance away. It’s not like he can pull her into the car from there. She can always run and scream bloody murder if he tries.
She can’t make out his features in the dark, but she sees him reaching into his pocket. Her stomach lurches. Is he going to pull out a gun and force her into the car?
She’s about to take off when she sees something glint— and realizes it’s not a gun at all.
It’s a badge.
Oh. Thank goodness. Her knees go weak with relief. He’s a cop.
“We had an attempted rape over on French Street. The perp took off running in this direction. You haven’t seen him, have you? Tall guy, over six feet, with dark hair, about two-ten, two-twenty pounds, wearing a dark jacket and cap.”
“No. I haven’t seen him.” She looks around fearfully, half expecting the hulking suspect to jump out from behind the nearest shrub and attack.
“Okay, thanks.” The detective starts to roll up the window. “Just be careful, okay?” he calls, then adds, “You don’t have far to go, do you?”
“I . . . uh, I was going to walk home, but it’s up off of East Twelfth.” And actual escaped rapists are way scarier than imaginary ax murderers and fiery-eyed demons. “Do you have a phone I can borrow to call my parents for a ride?”
“I do, but what are you going to do after you call? Wait around alone out here for them to come and get you? You’ll be a sitting duck.” He leans over and opens the passenger’s-side door with a sigh. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”
He doesn’t sound thrilled about it, but she hurries gratefully toward the car.
She settles into the seat. The car is warm. Good. That feels much better. If he hadn’t come along, who knows what might have happened to her alone out here?