Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(44)

A few minutes later, they’re in the car, steaming hot chocolates sitting in the cup holders, all but forgotten.

Center Street isn’t at all hard to find—it branches off Main, a stone’s throw from the café (which Rose Tattoo confirmed to Calla really was once a speakeasy). She also said they could actually walk to the purple house from there, but Calla’s toes are pinched in the satin pumps, and anyway, she’s anxious to get there.

Her nerve endings sizzle with anticipation as they roll on up the dark street, past a lineup of old houses—most bigger than the ones in Lily Dale but definitely built in the same era. She can tell by the gingerbread porches, cupolas, fishscale shingles, and mansard roofs.

The neighborhood appears to be a blend of well-kept family homes, shabbier student rentals, and even a few fraternity and sorority houses marked with large Greek letters.

“You do know this might be another dead end.” Jacy leans toward the windshield as he drives, straining to make out the house numbers, and paint colors, in the dark.

“I know it might. But it might not.”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed again.”

“I won’t be,” Calla lies.

The truth is, she has a powerful gut feeling that they’re about to find . . . well, if not Darrin Yates himself, then something. Some new information, another piece of the puzzle.

“It should be right around here somewhere.” Jacy consults the napkin again, then slows the car to a crawl.

“There!” Calla points excitedly.

In the glow of the headlights and a nearby streetlamp, it’s easy to see that the turreted two-story Victorian house is painted a bright shade of purple.

At the sight of it, an inexplicable rush of emotion sweeps through Calla.

She can’t put her finger on why, but she’s positive there’s a strong connection between her mother and this house.

The instinct is so overwhelming that Calla jumps out of the car even before Jacy has come to a stop at the curb out front.

“Calla, wait!”

“What?” She turns back and sees that he, too, is out of the car, though his door is open and the engine is still running.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea to . . .” He trails off and looks around them at the dark, deserted street. “I just don’t know.”

She nods, uneasily remembering all the warnings that have come her way lately. Still . . .

“You said you saw me struggling in the water. There’s no water here.”

He nods. “I know. But to walk up to someone’s door at night might be asking for trouble. You heard what the woman at the café said about the people who live here.”

“I know, but we can’t just leave.”

“No,” he agrees, “we can’t.”

Together, they walk up the leaf-strewn steps onto the shadowy porch, century-old boards creaking beneath their feet. Calla hesitates only a moment before ringing the old-fashioned bell. She can hear the loud buzz echoing on the other side of the door.

After what seems like a long wait, the overhead porch light flicks on and a face parts the curtains shrouding the door’s glass window.

A woman’s face, Calla realizes. Must be Sharon Logan. And Rose Tattoo was right, she doesn’t look particularly welcoming. In fact, there’s something downright scary about the way her gaze narrows directly at Calla before she opens the door.

“What is it?”

At a loss for words, Calla is silent, taking in the formidable face before her. It isn’t just that the woman is unattractive, with close-set, slate-colored eyes, sagging jowls, and a faint hint of fuzz across her upper lip. But her attitude is downright hostile.

“Mrs. Logan?” Jacy speaks up.

“No.” The woman glares harder. “Not Mrs.”

“Ms. Logan”—Jacy doesn’t wait for an affirmation—“my name is Jacy Bly, and this is Calla Delaney, and we’re in town looking for this man. Have you seen him?” He offers the framed photo, but the woman doesn’t take it.

She merely flicks a glance at the picture, then back at them. “No.”

Is she lying? Maybe.

But Calla isn’t eager to toss out an accusation and risk the consequences.

“Are you sure?” Jacy asks, still holding the frame.

“Positive.” Sharon Logan’s gaze shifts from him to Calla. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s bad manners to go around ringing strangers’ doorbells at this hour of the night?”

She closes the door in their faces without another word. A split second later, the overhead light is extinguished, leaving Calla and Jacy in the dark.

“Come on,” he says in a low voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But I need to know about my mother,” she says desperately. “And Darrin.”

“You’re going to Florida next weekend. Maybe you’ll find something when you go through her things at the house, and check the laptop.”

“Maybe.”

Leaves rasping beneath their footsteps, they head down the steps and along the walk toward the car.

They’re almost there when Calla feels a pair of eyes boring into her. She looks over her shoulder at the house again, expecting to see Sharon Logan in the window.