Discovering (Lily Dale #4)(29)

“Calla, you can’t withhold information from the police. You’ve got to tell them everything you know .”

“But they already have Sharon Logan in custody.”

“They need to know she might be responsible for more than one death.”

He’s right.

She knows he is.

And she can’t go on protecting her father forever. Sooner or later, the whole truth is going to come out.

What then?





ELEVEN

Lily Dale

Wednesday, October 10

5:06 p.m.

All afternoon, as Calla went through the motions of digging to China with Dylan and Ethan—and trying not to be uneasy when Dylan kept talking about saving the hurt people there— her thoughts flew from Althea to the dead baby and back again.

“How come you’re not talking to us, Calla?” Dylan asked her at one point, and she made an effort after that.

It was a relief when her duties came to an end—until she allowed herself to remember what’s coming next.

Now, as she rounds a bend and sees Jacy waiting for her in the pavilion, her stomach starts to churn.

“Hey,” he says, and reaches out to grab both her hands in both of his, pulling her closer. “Are you ready?”

“I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

“Is that a no?”

She sighs. “It’s a yes. Let’s go.”

“Here, give me your backpack. I’ll carry it.”

“That’s okay.”

“It weighs a ton. Give it to me.” He holds out his arm.

She hands over the backpack.

“Better?” he asks as he slings it over his own back.

She nods. Surprisingly, it does feel better to have the literal weight taken off her shoulders. Too bad she can’t hand over the figurative one as well.

“Come on.” He laces his fingers through hers and gives them a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m dreading this.”

“I know you are. But you can’t keep putting it off. And you’re stronger than you know . Look at all you’ve been through. Most people would crumple up and cry.”

“Don’t think I haven’t,” she tells him, but finds herself warmed by his praise.

They walk in silence toward Erie Boulevard, a narrow, rutted road on the far eastern end of town. She tries not to think about their last confrontation with Darrin’s parents, who basically let her know that they somehow blamed her mother for their son’s disappearance.

Of course, Calla wrongly blamed Darrin for Mom’s death, so who is she to hold a grudge?

“Just take a deep breath,” Jacy advises as she stops walking, seeing the Yateses’ shingle and glassed-in front porch come into view.

“What if they’re not home?” she asks hopefully, despite the car parked in the driveway.

“They are.”

“I know .” She draws a shaky breath into her lungs, holds it, and exhales through puffed cheeks. “Okay, let’s go.”

As they slowly climb the steps to the white aluminum door, a dog begins barking somewhere inside the house.

At last, Jacy lets go of her fingers with a final squeeze and rings the bell.

The last time they were here, the porch was fixed up like an indoor-outdoor living room, with lamps, a television, and furniture. Now Calla can see through the window that there’s nothing but a stretch of bare teal carpet and several cardboard moving boxes stacked near the door.

Clearly, the Yateses are getting ready to vacate their cottage for the winter.

Mr. Yates, a gray-haired, balding man, steps onto the porch, accompanied by a barking terrier. As Darrin’s father peers at them through the window in the door, Calla sees a spark of recognition—quickly followed by dismay— in his gray-blue eyes, behind a pair of wire-framed bifocals.

“Jasmine, shh, down, girl.” He collars the dog and opens the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Hi, Mr. Yates. I’m not sure if you remember me. . . .” Yes, she is sure he does, but it seems polite to reintroduce herself. “I’m Calla Delaney. Odelia Lauder’s granddaughter?”

And Stephanie Lauder Delaney’s daughter, but no need to voice that aloud. He knows.

“Hello.”

“And this is my . . .” “Friend” seems wrong. And this is not the best moment to call him her boyfriend for the first time. “This is Jacy Bly.”

Mr. Yates offers Jacy the same polite, yet frosty, nod.

“I need to speak to you— and your wife, too. It’s about your son.”

He raises a bushy gray eyebrow. “What about him?”

Calla falters.

“It’s probably a good idea if we come inside and sit down,” Jacy speaks up. “If you don’t mind.”

“No. Come in,” he says heavily, as if he realizes, somehow, what’s coming.

Still keeping a grip on the dog, he leads them into a sparsely decorated living room that’s shockingly uncluttered by Lily Dale standards.

“We’re getting ready to leave this weekend for Arizona,” Mr. Yates explains, sweeping an arm around the room. “Most of our things are packed away. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

He shuts the dog into a room at the back of the house amid barking protests, then goes upstairs.