Discovering (Lily Dale #4)(8)

That, of course, is no longer the case.

Now she’ll have to report to both Dad and Gammy— and they’ll be total watchdogs after all she’s been through. She’ll be lucky if they let her go away to college next fall.

Which reminds her . . .

She’s supposed to be narrowing down her choices and meeting with her guidance counselor about it in a few days.

Not to mention, she’s got a pile of weekend homework to get to before tomorrow morning.

The last thing she feels like doing right now is worrying about any of that.

Jacy . . . I really do need to talk to Jacy.

She swings through the living room to grab the cordless phone receiver, then heads up the stairs with it, her duffel, and her mother’s laptop. She’ll hide that away until she feels like dealing with whatever additional information might be buried in its files.

Gert is waiting at the top of the stairs.

“Hi, kitty. Did you miss me? Hmm?”

The cat rubs against Calla’s legs, purring.

“I know . . . . I missed you, too.”Calla reaches down to stroke her soft fur. “Do you want to sleep on my bed tonight?”

Abruptly, Gert arches her back and thrusts her paws forward on the floor.

Calla laughs. “Is that a yes?”

Then she realizes Gert has fastened her feline gaze on something over Calla’s shoulder. She turns just in time to see a filmy apparition drift into the wall.

They really are everywhere.

This morning the airport—and the plane, too—were loaded with spirits along for the ride, drawn by the passengers’ nervous energy, no doubt.

If there’s anything Calla has learned lately about the dearly departed, it’s that in order to manifest, their spirits feed off human—and sometimes electrical, or technological— energy.

And that animals are particularly aware of their presence.

Gert is still keeping a wary eye on the wall where the apparition disappeared. There was originally a doorway there, Gammy told Calla.

“It’s okay, Gert.”She leans over to pet the kitten. “It’s just, you know, a . . . visitor. You’ll get used to them, like me. Well, I mean, I’m trying to.”

Gert looks at the wall, and then at Calla for another long moment, before turning and strolling down the stairs.

Feeling depleted, Calla steps over the threshold into Mom’s girlhood bedroom, with its old-fashioned white beadboard and striped wallpaper and sage-and-rose color scheme.

As she sets her belongings on the floor and inhales the familiar smell of old wood and clean linens, an unexpected wave of relief washes over her.

There’s Mom’s white iron twin bed covered in a patchwork quilt pieced together from Mom’s little-girl dresses. There’s Mom’s carved wooden music box filled with her jewelry. There are Mom’s childhood books on the shelves, progressing from the Little House series to The Outsiders to Flowers in the Attic.

And there, Calla realizes with a jolt, is Mom herself.

Mom, not as Calla knew her, but as she appeared at Calla’s age, when she lived here. When she looked so much like Calla does now—same slim, long-waisted build; same wide-set hazel eyes; same thick, milk-chocolate- colored hair streaked with lighter shades of brown—that if they were facing each other, it would be like gazing into a mirror.

She’s lying on her stomach on the bed, reading a book— one of the Little House books, Calla sees. Her legs are bent at the knees, feet waving lazily in the air, as though she hasn’t a care in the world.

Then, as abruptly as the apparition appeared, she’s gone.

“Mom! Mom, wait!”Calla rushes toward the bed, arms outstretched.

But the room is empty. The bed is empty. She’s all alone.

Trembling, she sinks onto the mattress and touches the spot where she saw her mother.

Jacy once mentioned a theory that events can leave psychic imprints on the places where they occurred.

That’s what must have happened; it’s as if a door opened just long enough for Calla to glimpse the past before it was slammed shut again.

Calla didn’t feel Mom’s presence, though.

Not the way she’s felt other spirits. Kaitlyn Riggs, for instance— the girl who was kidnapped and murdered. Or her schoolmate Donald Reamer’s dead father. Or Aiyana . . .

Those were all visitations.

She’s been waiting for one from her mother.

But this was more like . . . looking at an old snapshot.

An odd snapshot, really, because the book in Mom’s hands was meant for a much younger reader. Not that it matters.

“Mom, can you hear me? I need to see you. Really see you. The way I knew you. I need to feel you here. I need you to come to me, please. I need to know what happened.”

I need . . . I need . . . I need . . .

Calla sinks onto the bed and buries her face in her hands, frustrated.

She needs answers.

Why is it that finding out who killed her mother only opened the door to more questions?

Like . . . what happened to her mother’s other child?

There are only three options, really. Either Mom and Darrin gave the baby up for adoption, or Darrin raised it himself, or . . .

It died.

She glances at the laptop.

There’s a chance she could log in right now and find out that she has a brother or sister living in Boston or something.