Long Lost, стр. 33

Who had access to the book? Well . . . Ms. Miranda, of course. Was she trying to send Fiona a secret message, something that she couldn’t say aloud? Or was it the weird blond boy, who clearly knew something about the story? Was it the woman who worked on the library’s third floor, and who obviously cared about protecting Evelyn’s memory? Could it be someone else? Could it be a trick?

Fiona put the pillow back over the book. Then she flopped down and thumped her head against the pillows, which sometimes helped to shake thoughts loose.

If the book didn’t have any more answers to give, where could she look? She’d checked the graveyard. She’d explored the woods around Parson’s Bridge and hadn’t found anything but a stray dog—a dog who’d led her straight back to the library. The library that was Evelyn and Margaret’s house.

That had to be it. There had to be something there for Fiona to find. Something that would prove the story in The Lost One was true after all.

Suddenly, Fiona sat straight up in bed. KEEP DIGGING.

She knew just what she needed to look for.

The stormy sky was darkening from pencil lead to charcoal when Fiona pedaled up to the old brick mansion.

She had waited until her family left the house before tucking The Lost One into her bed, putting on a raincoat, and sneaking into the garage. Then she’d zipped a garden trowel into her backpack and steered her bike out into the rain.

It was just past seven now, nearly two hours before the library would open. The rest of downtown Lost Lake was dim and sleepy, doors shut and windows dark. Still, Fiona felt the quiet old buildings watching her, as if they knew she shouldn’t have been there at all.

At the library, Fiona turned, riding around the big brick building and into the backyard. There she stopped and scanned the windows. There were no lights on yet. No one was inside to look out and see her creeping past.

Fiona examined the wooded yard. The sagging building to her left had to be the old carriage house. Fiona imagined Charlie Hobbes peering out of its boarded-up second-floor windows, watching a girl in a white nightgown trail into the trees.

But which tree had she chosen?

Thunder rumbled, closer now. Fiona blinked the raindrops from her eyelashes. There were dozens of oaks to pick from. Which one was the biggest? Which was the oldest? How could she possibly know? She thought of archeologists surveying miles of blank, bare desert, deciding where to dig. How could they possibly know?

At least archeologists had teams, she thought, pulling the trowel out of her backpack. They didn’t have to search all alone.

But when she straightened up again, Fiona wasn’t alone either.

Something hidden in the trees was watching her with yellow eyes.

Fiona’s heart jolted.

She took two quick steps back, skidding on the slippery grass.

The yellow eyes stared on.

They were too close to the ground to be human. Fiona was pretty sure that there weren’t any dangerous wild animals in this part of Massachusetts, but when the eyes suddenly charged closer, Fiona’s heart jolted again.

Before she could run, a curly brown dog bounded out of the shadows.

“Oh. It’s you.” The words came out of her in a relieved whoosh. “What are you doing out in the rain?”

She stepped toward the dog, but just like before, it danced out of her reach.

“Hey. Dog!” Fiona called. “Where do you live?”

The dog circled a nearby tree, sniffing at something on the ground.

“Are you a stray? Or do you belong here?”

The dog pawed at the earth.

Fiona lowered her voice and tried once more. “Hey. Is your name Pixie?”

At this, the dog looked up. Its gold-brown eyes met hers. Its bristly nose quivered.

Fiona stood like a stone, letting the rain pummel her.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be the same Pixie. The same curly brown dog that had lived here, with Evelyn and Margaret, more than a hundred years ago.

Fiona crouched. “Come here, Pixie,” she whispered.

Now the dog padded closer. But when Fiona reached out to touch him, she felt nothing but a stir in the cold, damp air.

A matching cold, damp feeling swirled through Fiona’s stomach.

The dog turned away again, pawing harder at the roots of the tree.

Like he was looking for something.

In Fiona’s head, a match touched a wick. She grabbed the trowel.

The dog hopped sideways, watching, as Fiona began to dig.

The ground was spongy with rain. As Fiona dug, the drops fell faster, the hole around her trowel pooling with rainwater. Soon the dirt turned to mud. Cold grit stuck between her fingers, and wet strands of hair pasted themselves to her face.

The dog gave an impatient whimper.

Flickers of lightning bleached the air. Thunder banged again, so close now that it made Fiona jump.

This was ridiculous. What was she doing, crouching under a giant tree during a thunderstorm, gripping a metal tool, taking direction from a dog? Fiona’s shoulders sagged. She yanked the trowel out of the mud.

And below it, deep in the muddy hole, something glinted.

Fiona shoved the trowel beneath the glinting thing. It popped to the surface. Fiona grabbed it, letting the pouring rain help wash the mud away.

Underneath was the gleam of mother-of-pearl.

It was coated with dirt and rust, but that didn’t matter. Fiona knew what this was.

She was holding Hazel’s—Evelyn’s—pocketknife.

“I knew it,” said a voice from behind her.

There was another bang of thunder.

Fiona scrambled around, nearly falling on her backside. Standing a few feet away, holding a broad green umbrella, was the round-faced blond boy.

He nodded toward the knife in Fiona’s hand. “I knew it still had to be here somewhere.” He squinted through the rain. “How did you know where to look?”

“I . . . ,” Fiona began. “The dog was . . .”

She pointed. But the curly brown dog had vanished.

“Oh, you mean Pixie,” said the boy.

Fiona swallowed. “You know about Pixie?”

“Sure,” said the boy. “Of course I know about him.” He gave Fiona a steady stare. “I’m Charlie Hobbes.”