Believing (Lily Dale #2)(46)

Maybe she can settle the boys in front of a video and—

Nah. That wouldn’t be fair. Paula can do that herself. She’s paying Calla to entertain the boys, and that’s what she needs to do.

“Come on in,” Paula calls in response to her knock.

Calla finds her in the living room, reading a book called Love You Forever to the boys, who are curled up on either side of her.

“We’ve been to the library, and we’re reading our way through the stack. I’ll finish this one,” Paula says, looking up from the book. “Have a seat.”

Calla does, and finds herself drawn into the whimsical story, which is about a mother who continues to rock her child to sleep with a lullaby through every stage of his life. Calla is teary eyed when it concludes with the grown son cradling his elderly mother in his arms, rocking her to sleep with the same lullaby.

As she sneaks a hand up to wipe her moist cheeks, she catches Paula doing the same thing. Maybe she, too, lost her mom. Or maybe it’s just because she is a mom. Whatever . . . when she looks up, her eyes are shiny, and she smiles at Calla.

“That one gets me every time,” she tells her.

“Can you read it to us, Calla?” Dylan asks. “I want to hear it again.”

“Oh, let Calla read a different one. How about a silly one?” Paula speaks up quickly, as if she knows that anything that tugs on the heartstrings—especially anything involving a mother and child—is especially emotional for her right now.

“You can read Walter the Farting Dog, then,” Dylan decides.

“Fart!” Ethan echoes.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. They’re all yours, Calla.” With a laugh, Paula pulls herself to standing and hobbles toward the kitchen. In the doorway, she turns back. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you . . . someone was asking about you down at the café this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“My husband was on his way out, and he overheard a man who wanted to know if there was a new girl in town, about seventeen, a medium who was living with her grandmother. You’re the only one around here who fits the bill.”

“Who was the man?” Calla asks, remembering the AP reporter who called. And Kaitlyn’s killer.

Please let it have been the reporter. Please.

“Marty had never seen him before. And he said he had sunglasses on, so he couldn’t really see his face.”

“Did the guy get my name?”

“I don’t know. Unlike me, my husband is the type of person who doesn’t like to get involved, so he left.” She rolls her eyes. “You know, if I were there, I would have gone over and asked who he was and why he was asking about you. When Marty told me . . . I don’t know. It made me nervous and—” Paula glances at Dylan and breaks off abruptly.

Calla looks over to see that the little boy’s eyes are round.

“That was the bad man,” he says suddenly. “Right?”

“What are you talking about, honey?” Paula asks.

“The man. The one with the raccoon eye. Kelly told me he’s looking for Calla.”

“Dylan was with your husband when he was in the café?” Calla asks Paula, shaken.

“No. He was here with me.” Paula looks at her son. “You didn’t see the man today, Dylan. You weren’t with Daddy.”

“No, Kelly told me about him last night, Mommy. When I was in my bed.”

Paula smiles tightly. “Maybe you just had a bad dream.”

Calla can’t seem to find her voice at all. Her pulse is racing.

“He’s a real bad guy, not a bad dream guy,” Dylan insists, “and he’s here, and Kelly says he’s going to get Calla.”

Paula looks helplessly at her. “Sorry. He must have heard me talking to Marty.”

Calla nods, not buying that for a second.

Dylan’s father is a medium. It’s hereditary.

He knows, she thinks, watching the child, who is scowling now and flipping the pages of a library book. He knows things, like I do. Maybe Kelly is his spirit guide and—

“Calla?” Ethan cuts into her thoughts, thrusting a book at her. “Walter?”

She forces a smile. “Sure, Ethan. I’ll read the Walter book.”





Paula’s comment—and Dylan’s ominous warning—cast a major pall over Calla’s afternoon. As she trudges up the path toward her grandmother’s front steps, her legs brushing against an overgrown hodgepodge of late summer flowers in full bloom, she’s still not quite sure what to make of any of it.

“Calla!”

She turns, startled, and spots Evangeline waving from the porch next door, where she’s curled up with a textbook.

“Hey, got a minute? Or are you busy?”

“Supposedly.” Evangeline snaps the book closed. “But anything’s better than conjugating French verbs. What’s up?”

Calla makes a beeline for the porch, needing to get an expert opinion on what happened at Paula’s. She quickly explains, and Evangeline tilts her head as she digests the information for a long, thoughtful moment.

“The thing is, Calla, little boys have active imaginations. Especially Dylan.”

“I know. He has an imaginary friend.” Or so he says. “And, I mean, the other day, he decided he was a superhero and wore a dish towel tucked into the back of his T-shirt all afternoon. He wouldn’t talk to me unless I called him Captain the Brave.”