Long Lost, стр. 21

Chapter Eleven

After finding that The Lost One had disappeared from her nightstand, Fiona did what any calm, rational, future archeologist-historian would do.

She ransacked her bedroom.

Then, standing amid the mess of blankets and moved furniture and spilled clothes, with no sign of the book anywhere, she forced herself to stop and think.

It took two seconds to realize who the culprit must be. Someone who had access to her room. Someone who had glimpsed the missing book on Fiona’s bed last night. Someone who might try to scare Fiona, like Fiona had tried to scare her. Someone who could move so softly and gracefully that she didn’t even make the floorboards creak.

Fiona burst out into the hall. “Arden!”

No answer.

Fiona pounded along the hallway.

Arden’s room was empty, the bed neatly made. She must have been at practice already. But her dozens of photos hanging on the walls seemed to be watching Fiona with smug, secretive smiles.

Fiona threw open her sister’s closet door. She shoved the dangling costumes and dresses aside and rummaged through the boxes below. She threw back the perfect bedcovers. She yanked open the dresser and vanity drawers, spilling socks and leggings and hair ribbons and lip gloss and—

“Fiona?” Her dad’s voice called from the staircase. “I’m heading to campus in ten minutes! Do you still want a ride to the library?”

Fiona froze, staring at the chaos she’d created. If Arden had hidden The Lost One somewhere in this room, she’d done a very crafty job. Then again, she might have taken the book to the rink with her, which would be even craftier. And crueler. And now, without even finding the book, Fiona had ten minutes to fix everything.

“I’ll be right down!” she shouted back.

“All right. Ten minutes!” The stairs squeaked as her dad stepped away.

As fast as she could, Fiona threw the covers over the bed, rearranged toppled pillows, and stuffed wrinkled clothes back into drawers. Why did it always take four times as long to clean something up as it took to make a mess of it in the first place? It seemed like this must break one of the laws of physics. And unless Fiona took eight times as long, Arden would definitely notice that things were out of place.

But there wasn’t time to be perfect. Not without missing her ride to the library. Besides, Fiona thought, looking at the wrinkly covers and not-quite-shut drawers, Arden deserved to have her perfect bedroom be a bit less perfect. A few small changes, like an untied boot lace and a hidden medal, could be creepier than something obvious. Maybe the room was perfect after all.

Leaving Arden’s things almost—but not quite—repaired, Fiona hurried away.

Half an hour later, Fiona was hunched in an armchair in the central room of Chisholm Memorial Library, pretending to read National Geographic while glowering over the edge of the magazine at the circulation desk. She had planned to keep watch over Ms. Miranda today, to see if she could figure out what secrets the librarian was hiding, and why. But Ms. Miranda wasn’t even there. Mrs. Brewer and a youngish man with dark skin and a blue bow tie were working behind the circulation desk. How much more frustrating could one morning get?

If only she had someone to sympathize. Someone who’d understand.

Fiona pulled the phone out of her backpack pocket.

Can’t wait to see u all tomorrow, she texted Cy. So much weird stuff to tell u about!!!

She waited. There was no answer.

Sighing, she dropped the phone back into her bag. As she straightened up, her eyes coasted across the room, snagging on the portrait of Margaret Chisholm. Fiona frowned up at her regal little smile. OUR STORIES ARE WHAT BIND US TOGETHER—M.C. Sure. If you ever got to finish those stories.

“Hey,” whispered a voice, so suddenly that Fiona wondered for a split second if the portrait was talking to her.

She jerked backward.

The blond-haired, round-faced boy was perched on the nearest armchair, staring at her.

“Oh. Hi,” Fiona whispered back.

“Your name’s Fiona Crane, right?”

Fiona blinked. “How did you know that?”

“It’s a small town.” The boy shrugged. “When somebody new moves here, everybody knows. And my family has lived here for generations, practically since Lost Lake was founded. So we know everything about everybody.”

Fiona wriggled backward in her chair. This boy knowing more about her than she knew about him made her feel off-balance and small—like he was sitting at one end of a seesaw with bricks in his pockets, and she was trapped on the other end, dangling in midair.

Before she could ask any questions of her own, the boy plowed on. “Where do you live? Which street?”

“Lane’s End Road,” said Fiona slowly, wondering if it was safe to give a strange kid her address.

But the boy nodded like he knew this already. “South of town. Up against the woods.” He nodded again. “My family lives on Church Street. So if you were heading into town from the north, you’d go down Old Turnpike Road, which used to just be called Turnpike Road. It goes past Wayfarer’s Rest Cemetery.” The boy leaned a bit closer. “Do you know where I mean?”

His skin was very pale, Fiona noticed. And his eyes held fragments of several shades of green. Their stare was bright and flickering, like a candle behind stained glass.

“I think I know where you mean,” she said.

“And then, keeping on Turnpike Road, you’d cross Rose Lane and Lilac Lane.” The boy whispered the names so emphatically, Fiona wondered if she was meant to whisper them back.

He went on staring at her with those intent eyes until she did.

“Rose Lane and Lilac Lane.”

The boy nodded once more. “Rose Lane.”

He gave Fiona a last, long, evaluating look. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he wasn’t sure what to think of her. Then, without saying goodbye, he stood and walked quickly away.

Fiona watched him go.

She couldn’t wait to tell her friends about all of this