Long Lost, стр. 14

Chapter Eight

By the time Fiona and her mom stepped through the doors of the Chisholm Memorial Library the next afternoon, Fiona was practically vibrating with impatience. She barely felt the other patrons’ stares as they approached the librarians’ desk, or the stifling hush in the air, or anything at all except the need to have the satiny green leather cover of The Lost One back in her hands.

“Hello.” Ms. Miranda smiled from behind the desk. Today her hair was pinned up in two wispy, looping braids decorated with origami flowers. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Hi. Our family has just moved to town, so we need library cards. I’m Caitlin Murphy-Crane, and this is my daughter, Fiona Crane.”

Through the buzz of her impatience, Fiona felt a shift in the reading room atmosphere. She glanced over her shoulder. The room had grown even more still than usual. All the people in the nearby chairs had turned toward the circulation desk. A knot of three old men at the newspaper rack had dropped their murmured conversation to listen.

Ms. Miranda ignored all of this. “Welcome to Lost Lake.” Her bright brown eyes flicked to Fiona. “I’ve seen you in here already, haven’t I?”

Fiona could have sworn everyone else in the room leaned closer. She nodded, keeping a wordy answer inside.

“It’s a beautiful old town,” said Fiona’s mom, when Fiona didn’t speak. “And this is a beautiful old building.”

“Yes. The Chisholm house,” said Ms. Miranda, rooting in a drawer. “We’re really lucky to have it.”

“The Chisholm house,” Fiona’s mom repeated. “Were the Chisholms town founders, or local politicians, or . . . ?”

“Frederick Chisholm was a very successful businessman,” said Ms. Miranda. “He left the house to his daughter, and she left it to us.”

“He was an investor.” One of the old men spoke up. “Invested in a bunch of industries. Didn’t make anything himself except money.”

“And they weren’t local,” put in another. “Sure weren’t town founders. Just moved here, built this house, and left again.”

“Or died,” said the third man.

Ms. Miranda’s smile didn’t waver, but Fiona saw it stiffen slightly. “This town is just full of history,” she said, banging the drawer shut. “Can I see a photo ID, please?” She pointed at the chain of purple monkeys hanging around Ms. Murphy-Crane’s neck. “Love your necklace, by the way.”

Fiona rocked from foot to foot while her mother dug for her wallet. She could practically feel The Lost One’s pages between her fingers already. She would flip through them until she found Pearl, soaked and shaken, staggering back to her house, and then—

“Fiona?” Her mom gave her a look. “Do you need to use the restroom?”

“No.” Fiona stopped rocking. “I’m just excited.”

“Almost finished.” Ms. Miranda slid two plastic cards across the countertop. “All I need now is a signature.”

Fiona grabbed her card. Chisholm Memorial Library, read the text beneath a sketch of the big brick building, widow’s walk and looming trees and all.

The other new things that had been shoved into her life hadn’t been hers to choose. But this new library card was different. She wanted it, even if it would mean that she truly lived in this strange, whispery old town.

She signed her name on the bare black line. Fiona Crane.

“Arden and I are heading to Framingham to pick up her new costume,” said her mom, dropping her own library card into her bag. “Your dad will pick you up at twenty to six. Fiona, are you listening?”

“Twenty to six,” said Fiona, sidling toward the staircase.

Her mom laughed. “See you later, ladybug. Happy reading.”

Fifteen seconds later, Fiona was skidding through the door of the mystery room. Late afternoon sun gilded the paneled walls. The rows of waiting books seemed to glow. In the back corner, Fiona threw herself down on the rug, yanked the book from the very end of the very bottom shelf, and settled into reading position, shivering with happy anticipation. She flipped the book open in her lap.

And immediately closed it again.

This was the wrong book.

Fiona rocked back, frowning. This book had a crinkly cellophane cover and a painting of a thatched cottage on the front. A Quiet Country Murder, by Rebecca Zales. Fiona shoved it back into place. On her hands and knees, she scanned the rest of the shelf. A row of ordinary, shiny spines stared back at her.

Fiona shot to her feet. Someone must have reshelved the book. Maybe The Lost One was back in the spot where she’d discovered it in the first place.

She darted through the rows. There was no sign of The Lost One on the shelf where she’d found it. Or on the next shelf. Or the next.

Fiona’s heart tripped. She forced herself to walk slowly along each shelf once more, trailing her eyes and her fingertips over every book.

The Lost One wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere.

Fiona raced back along the upper corridor, down the staircase, and through the central room so quickly that the newspapers in their racks fluttered like paper wings.

“Where’s the fire?” called one old man.

Ms. Miranda glanced up as Fiona skidded toward the circulation desk. The paper flowers in her hair nodded.

“I’m looking for a book,” Fiona panted, too desperate to care about the many eyes aimed at her back. “A mystery book. I started reading it here two days ago, but I had to leave