Long Lost, стр. 30

“That’s . . .” She trailed off, searching for the right conclusion.

“That’s Lost Lake.” Ms. Miranda shrugged. “That’s any old, small town. When I moved here for this job, there were all kinds of whispers about me.”

“Really?”

“Oh, sure. I wasn’t from here. I was from Philly, which made me very suspicious.” Ms. Miranda grinned. “There was gossip about the programs I ran, the books I bought. There was gossip about my personal life. There was even gossip about the way I dressed. Finally I started putting one weird thing in my hair every day, just so they’d have something good to whisper about.” She touched the violets above her ear, grinning wider. “Maybe you’ve noticed it too, being new here. Lost Lake isn’t the friendliest place to anybody who doesn’t already belong.”

The words loosened a little of the tightness that had been crushing Fiona’s ribs ever since their move. “Yeah,” she answered, taking a deep breath. “I have noticed that.”

“That’s the main reason I’m protective of that book.” Ms. Miranda nodded at The Lost One. “This town doesn’t need any more material for gossip about the Chisholms. They deserve to be left in peace.”

Fiona cradled the book closer. “If the whole town spread stories about the family, then who wrote this one?”

“Who knows?” said Ms. Miranda. “Anyone who knew the Chisholms could have done it. And they would have had good reasons to stay anonymous.”

Something else tickled the back of Fiona’s mind.

“Are you positive about how Evelyn died?” she asked carefully. “Like . . . are there any official records or documents, or . . .”

Ms. Miranda broke into another grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to become a librarian?” She slid down from the table and crossed toward a shelf stuffed with filing boxes. “Documents. I love documents.” She pulled a flat cardboard box from the highest shelf. “Here we are.”

She extended two pages toward Fiona.

Fiona wiped the traces of chocolate from her palm onto her jeans, set The Lost One carefully on the counter, and took them.

The topmost sheet was a photocopied newspaper clipping.

The Lost Lake Herald, June 1913

Evelyn Rose Chisholm, eldest daughter of prominent local resident Frederick Chisholm, has passed away peacefully after a brief illness at the age of thirteen years. She is survived by her parents, Frederick and Clara Chisholm, and her beloved sister Margaret. She will be dearly missed by all who knew her. Private funeral services were held at Emmanuel Episcopal Church. Interment was in Wayfarer’s Rest Cemetery in Lost Lake.

Fiona turned to the second paper.

It was a letter. A letter typed on an old typewriter, the kind that pressed tiny dents into the page.

May 4, 1970

To whom it may concern,

As has been arranged by my attorneys, I am leaving my family home to Lost Lake, to house its public library. I’m pleased to know that this place will remain a living part of the town even when I, the last of the Chisholms of Lost Lake, am gone.

Before considering the arrangement final, I make one request that I trust the library will honor.

While renovations and updates may prove necessary, I ask that the bedroom of my elder sister, Evelyn, be left intact and untouched in perpetuity. Evelyn’s room has been kept just as she left it when she passed away in 1913. Perhaps preserving her room allowed those of us who knew her to maintain the hope that Evelyn would one day come back. Perhaps we simply could not bear to do otherwise.

Copies of this letter have been provided to both the library board and my attorneys. I expect my requests to be reflected in all future contracts pertaining to the property.

There was a signature beneath the last typed line: Margaret A. Chisholm.

Fiona rubbed the edges of the page with her fingertips. Nothing felt quite as real as a typed, signed document.

“It’s always more satisfying to see evidence firsthand, isn’t it?” said Ms. Miranda. She took the papers back, placing them gently into their box. “Even if it doesn’t tell you what you expected it to.”

“What about the Searcher?” Fiona raced after a last loose thread. “You don’t think that could have been real, do you? I mean . . . if everybody in town believed in it—”

“The Searcher is just another story.” Ms. Miranda slid the box onto its shelf. “There are no weird beings wandering around in the woods, grabbing people. There’s no Searcher.”

“But if lots of people saw it, like the book says . . . ,” Fiona persisted, even though her voice was growing smaller. “I mean, I even thought I might have seen it in the woods the other day. . . .”

“You know that old expression . . . ‘Seeing is believing’?” Ms. Miranda asked. She moved slowly back toward Fiona. “It’s backward. You’ve heard a story about something called the Searcher. Then you see something a little strange, maybe just a shadow in the woods, and your mind starts telling you that story. You tell it to other people, and they start seeing things that must be part of the story too. Soon so many people believe in the Searcher, they see it everywhere. That’s how stories work.”

Ms. Miranda stopped in front of Fiona, giving her a wry but sympathetic little smile. She held out one hand. “Now. Would you like to kick this annoying book around the room for a while before I put it away again?”

The words were joking, but Fiona felt a sudden tightness shoot through her body. She couldn’t let go of the book. Not again. Not already.

“Can I . . . could I take it home with me?” she asked. “Just for a little while?”

Ms. Miranda’s smile dimmed. “Sorry,” she said. “Archival materials aren’t supposed to leave the building.”

“I just want to check it again.” Fiona pulled back. “There has to be something else to learn. Please.”

Ms. Miranda’s face was kind but firm. “It’s just a sad old story, Fiona. It might not have any more to tell you.”

“But it might. And I just . . . since we moved to Lost Lake, I’ve