Long Lost, стр. 35
Charlie took a sip of cocoa. “That’s the one thing I don’t know.”
Fiona lifted her own mug. Anybody who said there was only one thing he didn’t know was almost definitely wrong.
“I know basically everything about this town,” Charlie amended. “I know all the places and all the people. My family has been here forever. My grandpa and my great-grandpa were both named Charles Hobbes, and they both worked for the Chisholms. They’ve both passed on now. But my great-grandpa always said that Evelyn didn’t die of an illness. He said something else happened, and the Chisholm family covered it up.”
As hard as Fiona tried to focus on his words, the smell of cinnamon bun kept dragging her mind in another direction. “So . . . what happened?” she asked, through a giant mouthful.
“He wasn’t sure.” Charlie cut his own cinnamon bun into bite-sized pieces. “He just said she disappeared.”
“Hey,” said Fiona, swallowing so fast she nearly choked. “Do you think your great-grandpa wrote the book?”
“No.” Charlie shook his head hard. “He grew up with the Chisholms. He was practically part of the family. He hated all the gossip about them. Plus, he wasn’t really the book type.” Charlie shrugged. “I’m the outlier in my family in that way.”
Fiona took another huge bite. “Then who did write it?”
“Whoever did it was really angry at the Chisholms. Because that book is obviously cursed.”
Fiona frowned. “Cursed?”
“Don’t you know about curses?” Charlie gave her a look. “The book is cursed to remain at the library. It can’t leave, not for long. Just like a ghost can’t leave the place it haunts. And it doesn’t even have an ending. It’s stuck. Cursed.”
Fiona gave Charlie a look of her own.
This boy was odder than she’d thought. He might even be a kook, which was what her mom and dad called people who believed in unscientific things. Still, it was nice to sit in a booth in a warm diner, drinking cocoa and trying to solve a puzzle with a . . . well, not a friend. But something not one hundred miles away.
“Ms. Miranda said those stories are just rumors,” said Fiona at last. “She says Evelyn died of pneumonia or something, and people just spread gossip and conspiracy theories because that’s what people in small towns do.”
“Ms. Miranda isn’t from here,” said Charlie, as though this explained everything.
“Okay. Then . . .” Fiona took another gulp of cocoa, hoping not to sound like a kook herself. “Do you think the Searcher might be real?”
“Of course I do,” said Charlie. “I’m from here.”
“Plus there’s the dog. The one that might be Pixie.”
Charlie frowned. “Who else would it be?”
They were definitely in kook territory now. “You mean . . . you believe in ghosts?”
“Ghosts are just parts of the past that haven’t stopped happening,” said Charlie. “Things that are unfinished. Like if you disappeared, and no one ever found you.”
No one ever found you. The words lingered like a scar in Fiona’s mind.
What Charlie was saying made a strange kind of sense. Fiona believed in history, after all—in the traces that the past could leave behind. Traces like Evelyn Rose Chisholm.
“Ms. Miranda said the story wasn’t true,” said Fiona slowly. “But there’s so much of it that is true. Margaret and Evelyn and your great-grandpa. Parson’s Bridge. Evelyn’s knife. Pixie.”
“I know.” Charlie nodded. “I think the whole story is true. I think the book is just waiting for someone to unlock the ending.”
“But . . .” Fiona tapped her fork on her plate, thinking hard. “But Evelyn didn’t disappear, like the book says. She died. There was a funeral. She has a gravestone in the cemetery.”
Charlie nodded. “I know. I’ve seen it. It doesn’t mean she’s actually buried there.”
“No,” said Fiona, craning forward. “I just remembered. There’s something weird about the stone.”
“I know,” said Charlie again. “I’ve seen it.”
“You say that a lot,” Fiona exploded.
“Say what?”
“‘I know’!”
“I know.” Charlie cracked a smile—the first one she had seen him wear. “I’m an obnoxious know-it-all. Everybody says so.”
“Oh.” Fiona gave him a smaller smile back. “Well. At least you know.”
They both sipped their cocoa.
“What were you saying?” Charlie asked. “About the gravestone?”
“All the other Chisholm stones have dates, but there are no dates on Evelyn’s. What if that’s because they lied about her death? About when and how it happened?”
“That’s a good theory. Or maybe there’s no date because she was never buried at all.”
Fiona tipped her head to the side. “You’ve thought about this already, haven’t you?”
“A little.” The expression on Charlie’s face was less confident now. It was almost shy. “But it’s nice to have someone to talk to about it. Finally.”
Fiona scraped up a streak of icing with her fork. “Okay. Assuming The Lost One is true, how do we find the ending?”
“I know,” said Charlie eagerly. “Well—I might know. We should search Evelyn’s bedroom.”
“You know about Evelyn’s bedroom?”
“Of course I know about Evelyn’s bedroom.”
“Because you’re from here?”
“No. Because I’m a know-it-all.” Charlie flashed her another smile. “Let’s go.”
“Just a second,” Fiona murmured as she and Charlie Hobbes stepped through the library’s double doors. “When I went up to Evelyn’s room before, I got kicked out by one of the librarians who works up there. We should find out if she’s up there right now.”
Charlie nodded. “You should tell Ms. Miranda that you have a question for that other librarian. If she’s here, they’ll call her down, and if she isn’t, we can sneak up right now.”
“Yes,” said Fiona. “Exactly.” It was a little irritating, working with someone who knew everything already, but it did save a lot of explaining time.
They hurried toward the circulation desk.
Ms. Miranda looked up at them. Her dark hair was swept into an extra-elaborate heap this morning, with two tiny paper airplanes landing in its whorls. She gave a widening smile.
“Good morning, Fiona. And how’s it going, Charlie? You two have met?”
“Good morning,” Fiona answered. “We were just wondering . . . you know that librarian who works on the third floor?”
Ms. Miranda’s eyebrows quirked. “On the third floor?”
“Yes. I had a question for her.