Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(8)

Now it’s time to start filling out applications, and she hasn’t been anywhere or even given it much thought.

“I was thinking I’ll come visit you the weekend after next, and we can talk about it.”

“Oh . . . that’s actually homecoming, Dad. I’m going to be kind of tied up with that.” She tells him about it, trying hard to sound carefree.

“I’m glad you’re going,” he says. “I’ll just visit the following weekend, then.”

“No, Dad—actually, I was planning to visit Lisa then, remember?”

“You were?”

Counting on his absentminded-professorness, she says, “You told me that I could.”

“I don’t like the idea of you flying around by yourself.”

“I flew here by myself from Florida. I’ll fly by myself when I come out and see you,” she throws in for good measure, not that that’s been discussed.

“I know . . .”

“Dad, I’m homesick. I miss my friends. Can’t I please go to Tampa? It won’t even cost me anything, and Lisa is really counting on me.”

There’s a long pause.

“All right. You can go.”

Tears spring to her eyes.

Every time he feels her growing up a little more—up and away from him—he feels the ache of missing Mom even more.

She doesn’t know how she knows that . . . she just does.

Same as with everything else.

“But Calla . . . if you’re going to Florida because you’re homesick . . . well, the thing is . . .”

“It’s not home anymore. I know.”

“It’s not that I’m planning on selling the house anytime in the immediate future, but I can’t afford to hang on to it forever.” “I don’t want you to. Whenever I think of it, I think of . . . what happened.”

“I do, too. So I’ll get us a new place. We can make a fresh start.”

“In Tampa?”

“I don’t know. Not out here, though . . . I’ll tell you that much.” He laughs. “I’m just not cut out for this California lifestyle.”

“Give it a chance, Dad. I’m sure you’ll be hanging ten on a surfboard and having your teeth whitened in no time.”

He chuckles. “I doubt that. So listen, if you’re tied up into October, I’ll have to get there to visit you this weekend.”

“But Dad, can you afford it?”

“Better than I can afford not to see my girl for almost a month.”

“Really?”

“I miss you, Cal. I need to see you.”

She swallows hard. “I miss you, too. That would be great, Dad.”

“If you think Odelia’s offer for me to stay there is still open, I’ll save the money I spent last time on a hotel.”

“Oh . . . I’m sure it’s still open.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“No, I am. Gammy would love that.”

The problem is, if Dad stays right here under Odelia’s roof, he’s more likely to pick up on the fact that it isn’t your run-of-the-mill, nonhaunted household.

Maybe, Calla thinks hopefully, he won’t notice.

He can be pretty forgetful.

And she’ll definitely get her grandmother to take down the ODELIA LAUDER, REGISTERED MEDIUM shingle.

They talk for a few more minutes.

Then Calla says, “I’d better go start my homework.”

“Good idea. Okay. I’ll get online and buy myself a plane ticket to Buffalo for Friday.” He bites noisily into something crunchy.

“Um, Dad? What are you eating?”

“An apple,” he says. “I’m really getting into this California health-nut lifestyle.”

Her heart skips a beat. “What kind of apple?”

“Granny Smith. Why?”

“No reason,” she murmurs, well aware that Granny Smiths are bright green, just like the apple in her vision. “Hey . . . by any chance did you bring that old Grateful Dead T-shirt with you to California?”

He chuckles. “You bet. I’m wearing it right now.”

She nods, pretty amazed with herself. No need to ask about the fruit bowl and the kitchen and the Mexican-style pottery and the blooming shrubbery.

Something tells her she’s actually catching a glimpse of Dad on the opposite side of the country. Which is really more cool than scary, if you think about it.

“I love you, sweetheart. Be careful.”

It’s his standard sign-off, but tonight, the “be careful” resonates in her ears long after she hangs up and climbs into bed.

She just can’t stop thinking about that manila envelope. Whoever pushed Mom down the stairs stole it—Calla is positive about that.

A horrible accident.

That’s what the police called it; that’s what they had all believed: Calla, her father, her grandmother . . .

But I know the truth now.

Someone killed my mom. Someone was in our house with her and crept up behind her and gave her a hard shove. I felt those hands on my—on her—back. It was no accident. It was murder.





FOUR

Thursday, September 20

12:48 p.m.