Believing (Lily Dale #2)(62)

In her mother’s old bedroom, Calla quickly changes into her pajamas, realizing she hasn’t slept in almost two full days.

Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, she notices that her face looks gaunt and drawn, with deep circles under her bloodshot eyes.

Oh, geez. You’ve definitely looked better, she tells herself, quickly turning away.

Her gaze falls on the jewelry box. She hesitates for a moment, then opens the lid for the first time in days.

The remnants of that haunting tune spill out in hesitant, tinkling notes as the brass key on the bottom winds down.

She doesn’t bother to rewind it. She doesn’t care if she ever hears that melody again.

The emerald bracelet is still tucked inside the box.

Well, of course it is. Where else would it be? This is where you left it, remember?

Yeah.

She also remembers that the bracelet seems to have a life of its own, popping up out of nowhere in the night. Who’s to say it won’t disappear again?

Frowning at the thought, Calla snatches it and wraps it securely around her left wrist, snapping the clasp. She tugs it gently a few times, and it holds. Good.

Maybe you should start wearing it again after all, she tells herself. Maybe it’ll help you feel closer to her.

She runs her fingers over the glossy green stones and can’t help but notice that they seem to feel oddly warm. Almost as if . . .

Okay, now you’re delirious.

It’s been such a long, difficult day.

But it’s over now, she tells herself, yawning deeply as she folds back the quilt made of fabric squares from her mother’s childhood dresses.

A sense of calm begins to seep into her aching body as she slips into bed.

You can relax now.

Yes. At last she can escape, if only for a little while, the lingering memory of what happened to her last night.

She runs her fingertips over her mother’s emerald bracelet, trying to clear her brain.

All she needs to do now is go . . . to . . . sleep . . .

But she can’t.

A telltale chill is creeping into the room like an unwelcome night visitor.

Oh, no, Calla thinks wearily, reluctant to open her eyes. Please, no. Not tonight. I’m so exhausted.

She burrows deeper into the covers, hoping that if she ignores it—whoever, whatever it is—it will go away.

But she can feel persistent goose bumps raising the hair on her arms, and the air is quickly becoming saturated with a presence determined to make itself known.

Finally, Calla allows her eyes to open.

A figure is clearly visible in the darkened room, a few feet from the bed, watching her.

Calla recognizes the apparition in a flash: Kaitlyn Riggs.

But this time, for the first time ever, she’s smiling. Their eyes meet and she gives a little nod at Calla.

Thank you.

Kaitlyn’s heartfelt words echo in Calla’s head as she begins to fade.

“You’re welcome,” Calla whispers, and she adds one last “Good-bye” before Kaitlyn disappears entirely.

Knowing she’ll never see her again, Calla feels a twinge of sadness, yet mostly just relief.

She yawns and allows her body to relax once again, her right hand wrapped comfortingly around the bracelet on her opposite wrist. The stones really do feel warm.

It’s just the heat of your skin, she tells herself drowsily as she drifts off. That’s all . . .

Her mother is waiting for her in a dream.

Stephanie is in the professionally decorated, tropical-hued master bedroom in their house back in Tampa, getting dressed for work.

Watching her, a conscious part of Calla’s brain is aware, somehow, that her mother thinks she’s alone in the house . . . yet she isn’t.

A helpless voyeur, she watches her mother slip into a familiar pencil-slim charcoal gray skirt, then the matching suit jacket. Mom hums to herself as she fastens the row of round, shiny black buttons, then steps into a pair of high-heeled black Gucci pumps.

Turning to her bureau, she reaches for the bottle of Calvin Klein perfume she always wore—she called it her signature scent. Calla sees the label on the bottle: it’s called Eternity.

Mom sprays it, and Calla’s nostrils fill with the unmistakable smell of lilies of the valley.

But how can that be? It doesn’t make sense, Calla thinks fuzzily. Eternity smells spicy, almost fruity. Nothing like lilies of the valley.

That’s because you’re dreaming. Dreams don’t always make sense.

Then again . . .

This doesn’t feel like a dream.

At first, it was almost as though she were watching a scene in a movie. But now, wrapped in the familiar floral scent that couldn’t have come out of a Calvin Klein bottle, Calla is gradually understanding that it’s all too real.

She can vividly see every detail in the bedroom; can hear the far-off sound of the sprinkler system hissing across the lawn two stories beneath the closed window; can feel her feet walking in those tight, tall shoes.

Yes, suddenly, she, Calla, is actually in the scene. Living it. She has morphed into her mother, has gone from bystander to experiencing the action through her mother’s eyes.

She reaches toward the king-sized bed and lifts the edge of the Caribbean-blue quilt. Her fingers probe deep into the crevice between mattress and box spring. At last she finds it and pulls it out.