Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(72)

“I just don’t get why you want to go snooping around in your mother’s stuff,” Lisa said.

“Because I have to find out if there’s more to it.”

“Her death?” Lisa shook her head. “You can’t obsess about that for the rest of your life.”

“Sure I can,” Calla shot back, resenting Lisa, whose mother was at that very moment downstairs ironing Lisa’s T-shirt and shorts after whipping up homemade blueberry pancakes for breakfast.

Lisa didn’t say a whole lot after that. Just got dressed, rolled her bike out of the garage for Calla, and wished her luck.

Oh, well. She’ll get over it, and anyway, you can’t worry about that now, Calla reminds herself as she jabs at the kick stand with her sneaker and leaves the bike behind.

No, she has more than enough to worry about.

She fishes in her pocket for the keys her father left with the Wilsons so they could keep an eye on things in the Delaneys’ absence.

Then, hesitating on the walk, she squints up at her former home in the bright southern sunshine.

At three thousand square feet, the house seems gigantic to her, especially after spending two months among the modest gingerbread Victorians in Lily Dale. She can’t help but compare the professionally landscaped grounds here to the chaotic, profusely blooming cottage gardens back in the Dale.

I like the flowers better, she decides as she passes clipped shrubbery on her way around to the side door.

She doesn’t want to walk in through the front, where she would immediately confront the spot where her mother died.

Feeling distinctly uneasy, she glances at the house next door, across the fence, and spots a familiar sight: old Mrs. Evans sitting in her Florida room. Which might actually be comforting, if Mrs. Evans hadn’t passed away two years ago.

I wonder if she’s been there ever since she died, and I just couldn’t see her until now.

Probably.

There are actually a lot of things around here that Calla couldn’t see until now—and not all of them are ghosts.

The first thing that occurs to her, as she unlocks the door, enters the house, and relocks the door behind her, is that everything feels different.

Well, of course. The house has been standing empty for a couple of months now. The counters are bare, the rugs are rolled up, the houseplants all moved over to the Wilsons, and some of the furniture is shrouded in sheets.

Everything is dim; the shades are drawn against the sun.

The rooms are blatantly empty and unnaturally quiet without the steady hum of the central air. The house is warm, humid, stuffy; an unfamiliar smell hangs in the air—a hint of old produce mingling with Windex and insecticide.

The house might as well belong to strangers. Calla can’t imagine ever feeling at home here again. Not after all that’s happened. And not without Mom.

Calla longs to turn and walk right out again.

But she’s not here for old times’ sake; she’s here to look for clues, and to get her mother’s laptop.

So she forces herself to keep going, moving through the first floor that was once filled with light, bustling with family life. She passes the gourmet stove where Mom whipped up all those healthy organic meals, the table where Calla used to sit to do her homework.

She passes the door to the changing room, with its stall shower and door that leads out to the inground pool, now tarped, the water beneath murky with chemicals.

Feet dragging, she finally makes her way to the front hall, and a chill comes over her.

“Mom?” she whispers, praying she’ll materialize here, now.

But if her mother’s spirit is hanging around, Calla can’t see her, or feel her.

She glances at the spot where she found her mother’s body at the foot of the stairs, and an image flashes into her brain.

Her mother, bloody, crumpled . . . and a figure bending over her. Before she can see who it is, the vision is gone.

“Oh, Mom.” Calla grasps the edge of a table for support and lets out a sob, fighting the overpowering urge to flee.

You can’t.You have to find out what happened to her.

She propels herself to the staircase and hesitates, poised to backtrack over the very last steps her mother took on that terrible day.

Maybe something more will pop into her head. Maybe she’ll see the face of her mother’s killer—and recognize it.

The stairs loom ominously above her. Heart pounding, she reminds herself that there’s no real reason to be afraid right now.

Still, she pats her back pocket to make sure her cell phone didn’t fall out while she was riding over.

Just in case she needs to . . .

What? Like, call for help or something?

That’s a ridiculous thought, but Calla can’t seem to rid herself of a nagging sense of dread.

Good. The phone is still in her pocket. Anyway, she promised Jacy she’d call him as soon as she finds something—or even if she doesn’t. He called earlier this morning to check in, and to tell her he was headed to the library to research family crests.

Knowing he’s out there somewhere, thinking of her, trying to help her, waiting for her, makes the task ahead a little less daunting.

Calla ascends the stairway and makes her way down the hall, past her own bedroom, where the killer hid on that awful day.

The door, like all the others, is closed. Maybe later she’ll go in and see if anything strikes her.