Long Lost, стр. 15

“And you have to know what happens next. I understand completely,” said Ms. Miranda. “Someone else may have checked it out, but we’ll put a hold on it so you get it ASAP.” She clicked a few buttons on her keyboard. “Title?”

“The Lost One.”

Something small and bright flickered in Ms. Miranda’s eye—probably just light from the computer screen. “We have a recent mystery novel called All the Lost Ones,” she said, squinting at the monitor. “Is that what you mean?”

“No. The Lost One. I’m positive,” said Fiona. “And this book was old. Like, at least fifty years old. It had a leather cover, and a drawing of a forest on the front. . . .”

Ms. Miranda took a quick breath through her nose. Fiona couldn’t tell if it was a sniffle, or a gasp, or nothing at all. “Hmm. We definitely don’t have a book by that title in our fiction collection.” Her eyes flicked from the computer to Fiona. “Where did you say you found it?”

“It was in the mystery room. On the shelves.”

“Well, that’s very strange,” said Ms. Miranda slowly. She typed something else, took a breath, and turned to Fiona once more. “I don’t know what to tell you, except that the book didn’t belong there.” She gave a small, sympathetic smile. “I’d be happy to recommend another great mystery, if that’s what you’re into.”

“No,” blurted Fiona. “I mean—I am—but I need to get to the end of this one.”

Ms. Miranda stared into her eyes for a beat. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “Let me know if you change your mind about another book.”

The sympathy on the librarian’s face looked genuine. But that was no help to Fiona. Silently she turned away from the circulation desk, the stream of thoughts in her head sloshing so hard that it made her dizzy.

The Lost One hadn’t been part of the library collection at all. Now it was gone. And she might never find it again. She’d never know what had happened to Hazel. She’d never know if the Searcher was real. She’d never know how it ended.

Fiona’s eyes drifted across the central room, landing on the row of computers.

Wait a minute.

If you were looking for a book and couldn’t find it in the library, a librarian would usually offer to get it for you from another library. Fiona had requested enough rare old books about Egyptian tombs and lost Mayan cities to be sure of this. But Ms. Miranda hadn’t even offered. Why not? What would Fiona find if she searched for the book herself?

Fiona darted to a free computer. When she typed “The Lost One book” into the search bar, dozens of book covers appeared: lost boys and lost girls, lost lands and hearts and dogs, Lost Lake itself. Fiona scrolled through them all, page after page. But nothing was right. Maybe that was why Ms. Miranda hadn’t offered to get the book somewhere else. Maybe she’d tried and couldn’t find it either. Just in case, Fiona searched for “The Lost One novel.” And “Lost One mystery.” And “Lost One Hazel and Pearl.” Still nothing.

But the book did exist, Fiona assured herself, fighting against the sinking feeling that pulled at her stomach like an open bathtub drain. She had held the book in her hands. She’d read half of it. She’d left it right where she could find it again.

If it had been there, and if it had moved away . . . then someone else had moved it.

What if that someone else—and the book itself—was still here?

Quickly, trying to make herself as small and silent as possible, Fiona circled the central reading room. She checked every desk and tabletop. She squinted at the books in other people’s hands. Several people squinted back at her. A few of them even watched her suspiciously, as if she was the one who might have stolen something. But none of them had her book.

Fiona skulked through the study and the reference room next. There was no sign of The Lost One anywhere—although Fiona did spot the blond-haired, round-faced boy who’d told her about Margaret Chisholm, poring over a big book of maps. She scanned the upstairs rooms as fast as she could, rushing between the shelves until her vision blurred and her brain spun. But the book wasn’t there.

Finally, out of places to look and almost out of time, Fiona threw herself down in one of the central room’s big armchairs. She felt sad and annoyed and even a little sick, like she’d been about to dig into her first meal in days, and someone had whisked her plate away before she could take a bite.

If her mom hadn’t come early yesterday, Fiona thought, she wouldn’t have left the book behind. And her mom wouldn’t have come early if it weren’t for Arden’s stupid dance class. All of this—like so much else—was Arden’s fault.

Fiona bit her lower lip until her eyes watered.

And then, through the blur, she caught a flash of green.

It was exactly the right shade of green. It was the dark green leather of an old book. And it was sitting on a shelf behind the circulation desk.

The book hadn’t been there when she talked to Ms. Miranda, Fiona was absolutely certain. The librarian must have found it for her after all.

Fiona shot to her feet.

She’d just taken a step toward the desk when all the library lights flashed.

“Library patrons, it is five fifty.” The gray-haired librarian working beside Ms. Miranda announced into a small microphone. “The Chisholm Memorial Library will be closing in ten minutes. Please bring your materials to the checkout counter or to the return carts. Thank you.”

Fiona halted, thrown off balance. Five fifty? She was already late to meet her dad. And a crowd of other people was hurrying to the desk before her.

Fiona rushed to join the line. She stood on her tiptoes, watching as Ms. Miranda turned around. The librarian’s bright brown eyes slid over