Discovering
LILY DALE
DISCOVERING
Wendy Corsi Staub
For the sweetest June rose: my new niece,
Gianna Marie Corsi
And for my guys: Morgan, Brody, and Mark
Contents
New York City
Monday, October 8
1:46 p.m.
If you look hard enough, you can always find it.
The wise man who once said that to Laura wasn’t talking about the Internet, but the phrase has become her mantra for all things.
He was right, of course.
There it is.
She’s been looking, and she’s found it.
Her hand trembling on the mouse, she leans closer to the monitor and clicks to enlarge the window.
LOCAL WOMAN ARRESTED IN FLORIDA
Local woman.
Sharon Logan.
Whenever Laura has a chance to get to a computer, she enters the name in a search engine and prays nothing will come up.
Today, her prayers went unanswered.
According to the online news account from her hometown paper, Sharon Logan is being held without bail in Tampa for attacking a girl named Calla Delaney and trying to drown her in her family’s swimming pool. She’s also being questioned about the murder last summer of the girl’s mother, Stephanie Delaney, originally ruled an accidental fall down the stairs.
Those poor people.
Jaw set grimly, hand unsteady on the mouse button, Laura closes out the screen. That’s all she needs to know .
It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.
That’s why she had to get away. She just couldn’t take it anymore—the constant tension, the growing paranoia, the constant, smothering attention; being treated as if she were still a child, even now that she’s in her twenties.
Laura knew that if she stayed, eventually something would have to give. She didn’t want to be there to witness it.
But . . . murder.
She never really imagined it would be that extreme.
And . . . Florida?
What was she doing in Florida?
Who are the Delaneys?
Does it matter?
Maybe it should.
But after all those years of being the girl who lived in the purple house with the crazy lady, all Laura cares about is that she’s finally free.
Free, and not looking back.
“Excuse me, miss . . . are you done with that computer? Because we have people waiting to use it.”
She looks up to see a librarian. Not one of the friendly ones she’s gotten to know since she started coming here a few months ago; rather, the one who shushes people and scowls a lot when they hog the computers.
“Oh . . . sorry. I’m finished.”
She grabs her backpack, makes her way through the hushed library, and emerges on a crowded Manhattan street.
People rush past without giving her a second glance. No one knows who she is. Or who Sharon Logan is. No one cares.
That’s why she’s here. That’s just the way she wants it.
Especially now that Laura knows it finally happened. The crazy lady finally snapped.
Murder.
Laura knew, when she woke up this morning, that today would be the day the search engine would yield something.
If you look hard enough, you can find it.
Years ago, when he said those words, he was talking about hope.
About finding hope, in the midst of despair.
“If you look hard enough, Laura,”he said, handing her tissue after tissue to dry her tears, “you can find it.”
She clung to those words, somehow managed to find a glimmer of light on the darkest days; just a shred of hope to keep her going.
Yet now that it’s all over—now that she’s here, and Sharon Logan is a thousand miles away, in jail for murder . . .
Now, ironically, Laura’s mantra has been altered.
Every morning, she wakes up thinking it, praying it:
If you really, really,
really
want to get lost—really
need
to get lost—then no one can ever find you.
Lily Dale, New York
Monday, October 8
1:46 p.m.
“All right. Tell me everything. And I mean everything!”
Calla Delaney and her father look at each other, then back at Odelia Lauder, standing in the front hall waiting impatiently for one of them to start talking.
“Gammy, it’s really complicated.”Calla sets down her heavy duffel bag and shifts the laptop computer bag to her other shoulder, wishing her grandmother hadn’t pounced on her and Dad the second they walked in the door from the airport.
It’s been a long day already, saying good-bye to the Wilsons down in Florida, driving to the airport in Tampa, flying from there to New York City, then from New York to Buffalo, waiting for the luggage, renting a car, then driving almost an hour south to reach Lily Dale.
Odelia’s little two- story cottage with its peeling pinkish orange paint was a welcome sight. They arrived just as a cold rain began falling from an overcast sky, typical weather here in southwestern New York State.
Calla, in jeans and a fleece sweatshirt, was prepared for it.
Dad, wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt, was not.
“I’ll get some warmer clothes when we get there,”he told Calla earlier when she warned him that his outfit, which is fine for Florida— or Southern California, where he’s been on a teaching sabbatical since August—just won’t cut it up here.
Poor Dad. It’s not like he even had a chance to pack a bag for what’s turning out to be an extended, unexpected trip east. He hopped on a plane from LA on Saturday when the Tampa police informed him that his daughter had just been attacked by a lunatic killer.
Again.
Only Dad doesn’t know about the first time, well over a month ago.
That, of course, was a different lunatic killer.
Right.
Incredible, really, the things that have happened to Calla since she came to live with her grandmother in this tiny, gated lakeside village filled with century-old gingerbread cottages . . . and psychic mediums.
“Odelia,”Dad says, “there’s a lot to discuss.”
“I’m listening.”Gammy looks from him to Calla to him to Calla. “Hello?”
Not knowing where to begin, Calla avoids her grandmother’s expectant gaze. She stoops to pick up Gert, who’s rubbing against her ankles, purring, welcoming her back.
“Why don’t we let Calla go up to her room and relax,”Dad suggests, “and I’ll fill you in.”
“That’s a great idea. Calla, why don’t you—”
“No!”She protests so loudly that poor Gert leaps from her arms and flees up the steps past Miriam, who’s materialized about halfway up, keeping a ghostly eye on things.
Both Dad and Odelia gape at Calla, who scowls back at them. “Please don’t shuttle me off to my room like a little girl. I’m not. I’m almost eighteen.”Well, she
will
be, in another six months. “I can deal with what happened. I mean, it happened to
me
, remember? Maybe I want to talk about it. Maybe I
need
to.”
She does?
You do?
Hmm. The protest sort of popped out of her.
Who knows? Her head has been spinning since the plane touched down. Maybe she does need to get everything out into the open.
Then again, just a few moments ago, the last thing she wanted to do was rehash the events of the past few days.
Face it.You really don’t know what you want.
“Oh, sweetie, you’ve been through so much. It just breaks my heart.”Her grandmother throws a pair of strong maternal arms around her.
Suddenly, for all her longing to be seen as an adult, Calla feels as though she’s about to crumple and cry like a baby.
“I’m okay,”she manages to squeak out unconvincingly.
No, she isn’t. She
used to
be okay. Before everything— before she lost her mother. Before her life fell apart.
She used to be sweet and accommodating and happy and normal.
“You can’t possibly be okay. And you don’t have to be. Not yet. But you
will
be,”Odelia promises, reaching out to brush strands of Calla’s long brown hair back from her face.
Then, for the first time, she seems to notice the laptop bag. “What is that?”
“Mom’s computer. Now I’ll be able to check my e-mail and do research for homework right from here, Gammy.”
Among other things.
“But this house isn’t wired for the Internet, sweetie.”
“That’s okay. All I need is a phone jack. I can do a dial-up connection.”
