Long Lost Page 10

  She tried “Margaret Chisholm” next. There were a million listings, all of them about the Margaret Chisholm Memorial Library. That was a dead end.

  Fiona tried “Lost Lake disappearance” and “Lost Lake Searcher,” which turned up nothing but newspaper stories about a missing pet cat.

  Fiona’s eyes were beginning to sting. And she was running out of time. Her dad and her sister could be home at any minute.

  “Evelyn.” Fiona tried again. But this time she was typing so fast that she hit enter without adding anything more.

  Evelyn. Evelyn. Evelyn. A long list of baby name sites popped up. Fiona was about to start over when a word halfway down the screen halted her.

  Evelyn, read one entry. From the Norman French “Aveline,” meaning hazelnut.

  The back of Fiona’s neck prickled.

  Hazel.

  With shaky hands, she typed “Margaret” and hit enter.

  Margaret, read the very first line on the page. From the old Persian word for pearl.

  Pearl.

  The threads braided themselves together so fast that Fiona’s mind spun.

  Hazel and Pearl from The Lost One and Evelyn and Margaret Chisholm from Lost Lake weren’t just similar. They were the same. They had lived in the same house—the house that was now the Lost Lake library. They had played in the same woods. And one of them had vanished in the very same way.

  Whoever had written The Lost One must have known the whole story. But they’d written only half of it down, changing enough details to make a reader dig for the truth.

  But why? Fiona pummeled her brain with the question. Why tell only part of the story? Did whoever had written it expect—or hope—that some reader would finally figure it out?

  A downstairs door slammed. Voices echoed through the house.

  Switching the tablet off, Fiona scrambled back along the hall and left it neatly aligned on Arden’s desk. She flew back to her own bedroom.

  Everything that would happen next—more lecturing from her parents, a family dinner that was taken up entirely by talk about Arden and her competition, being sent off to bed early—didn’t matter.

  Fiona had found something. Something huge. Something world-changing. She felt like Howard Carter peering through the door of King Tutankhamun’s tomb.

  She was on the threshold. And inside, there was more to find.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fiona was grounded for the entire week.

  On Monday morning, her parents headed off to work, leaving Arden and Fiona in the house together. Arden stayed so icily silent, Fiona might as well have been there alone. Fiona knew there was no point asking Arden what she’d done with The Lost One. Her sister would only lie, if she spoke to her at all.

  They finished their breakfast in stifling quiet. Arden cleared her dishes and stalked into the living room.

  “I’ll be upstairs!” Fiona shouted after her.

  Arden didn’t answer.

  That was fine with Fiona. Her words weren’t a peace offering. They were an alibi.

  Shut in her bedroom, Fiona pulled the curtains and switched off the lights, making everything as dim as possible. She wadded a pile of dirty laundry under the bedspread, so if Arden happened to glance in—which wasn’t likely—she’d think Fiona was curled up in bed, taking a sulky nap. Then Fiona waited.

  At last, when she heard her sister’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by the closing bathroom door and the pipe-creaking hiss of the shower, Fiona took her chance.

  She slung her backpack over her shoulder, bolted out of the house, and biked away as fast as she could ride.

  A funny feeling struck her as she climbed the steps of Chisholm Memorial Library.

  These were the steps that Pearl had bounded up while being chased by the Searcher. This was the doorway where Pixie had waited, keeping guard. This was Pearl and Hazel’s house.

  No—Margaret and Evelyn’s house. When Fiona stepped across the threshold, she felt like both a guest and a trespasser, like she was stepping into the past and the present at the very same time.

  The librarian with the bow tie—it was a purple one this morning—smiled at her as she slipped by. “Can I help you find anything today?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Owens,” said Fiona.

  Today she wasn’t looking for a book.

  She was looking for that blond-haired boy.

  She knew he lived on Church Street, but she didn’t know his house number, or even his name. Her only real option was searching where she’d found him in the first place.

  Fiona had just finished checking the upstairs rooms and was padding back along the walkway when, in the central chamber below her, a familiar figure caught her eye.

  It wasn’t the blond boy.

  Someone with swirly brown hair topped by a little bouquet of violets had just emerged from the research room.

  Fiona watched as Ms. Miranda glanced carefully around the room, making sure that Mr. Owens was busy helping a patron at the computers before ducking behind the circulation desk. Once more, the librarian glanced to either side. But she didn’t look up.

  From above, Fiona watched as Ms. Miranda crouched behind the desk. The librarian pulled something dark green and book-shaped from under her arm, stuffed it into a canvas shoulder bag, and hid the bag behind a wastebasket. Then, with one last look around, she rose and strode away, leaving the desk unoccupied.

  Fiona sucked in a gasp that felt full of static electricity.

  Her book—The Lost One—was here.

  But how? And why? And did it even matter? Did anything matter more than getting that book back in her own hands?

  Fiona flew down the staircase. Mr. Owens was still busy at the computers. No one else was watching as she dove behind the circulation desk. She landed on her hands and knees, yanking the canvas bag out from behind the wastebasket.

  The Lost One was waiting for her inside. Its soft cover fit into her grasp like a familiar hand.

  Clutching the book to her chest, Fiona whirled around—straight into someone’s pink silk shirt.

  “Whoa,” said Ms. Miranda, taking an off-balance step back. “Well, hi there, Fiona Crane.” Her clear brown eyes flicked to the book in Fiona’s arms. “I guess the two of us need to have a chat.”

  The storage room down the STAFF ONLY hallway was tile floored and dim. One glance around reminded Fiona that this had once been the kitchen. Wooden cabinets still lined its walls, and the faintest scent of cinnamon and cloves haunted the air.

  “We can talk in here,” said Ms. Miranda, flipping on a light. She stepped past Fiona toward the middle of the room.

  Fiona hung back in the doorway. She gripped The Lost One tight, trying to crush a hundred questions into the back of her mind, where they couldn’t flood out all at once and give her secrets away.

  Ms. Miranda perched on a heavy table, facing Fiona. The bouquet of violets in her hair nodded softly. She reached into the pocket of her shirt.

  Fiona’s first thought was that Ms. Miranda was pulling out a gun.

  But that was ridiculous. A librarian would choose a quieter weapon. Something like poison, or a nice tight gag.

  Fiona stepped backward. Her spine struck the door.

  Ms. Miranda took a cardboard package from her pocket. “Chocolate-covered raisins?”

  Fiona blinked. “What?”

  “Chocolate always helps me think.” The librarian leaned forward, holding out the box. “Want some?”

  Cautiously, Fiona stepped closer, one hand out. Ms. Miranda poured several chocolates into it before eating one herself. So the raisins couldn’t be poisoned, Fiona thought. That seemed like a good sign.

  “Okay,” Ms. Miranda began. “You’ve read the library’s strangest book. What did you think?”

  “It was . . . interesting,” Fiona answered carefully. “Except for the missing ending.”

  “Annoying, isn’t it?” said Ms. Miranda. “It might be the worst misprint I’ve ever seen. Except you can�
�t really have a misprint if a book was never printed.”

  “Never printed?” Fiona echoed.

  “I’ve done the research. There’s no record of The Lost One ever being published.” Ms. Miranda pointed at the book in Fiona’s arms. “That’s the only copy that has ever existed. And it’s incomplete. See? Annoying.”

  “Wait,” said Fiona, feeling like time was suddenly reeling backward. “You know all about the book. But you told me the library didn’t even have it.” She gripped the book harder. “Why did you lie?”

  “I didn’t lie. Honest.” Ms. Miranda gave a small smile. “That book is not part of our fiction collection. No one is supposed to check it out. Or even know about it, really.”

  Fiona frowned. “Then . . . why is it here?”

  “It belongs upstairs, in the private rooms. It’s one of the Chisholms’ personal possessions. They’re supposed to stay undisturbed.”

  “But someone disturbed them anyway,” Fiona pointed out. “Because I found this on the shelves in the mystery room.”

  “Really?” Ms. Miranda tipped her head to one side. The violets tipped too. “You weren’t possibly poking around in staff-only areas . . . ?”

  “No!” said Fiona. “Well . . . I mean—not then. It was in the mystery room. I swear.”

  Ms. Miranda ate another chocolate. “Okay. Maybe it was.”

  “Which means someone else moved it,” Fiona pushed on.

  “Maybe.” Ms. Miranda shook a few more chocolates out of the box. “That book is supposed to stay on the third floor, like I said. But it has a habit of traveling all over the library. It will turn up in one of the reading rooms, or on top of a shelf somewhere. Today I found it under a chair in the research room.” She shrugged, shaking her head. “I always return it to the third floor, where it belongs, and eventually it pops up somewhere else.” Her bright eyes met Fiona’s. “My guess is you’re not the only library visitor who likes to wander through our off-limits areas.”

  “So is that how the book got back to the library now?” Fiona asked. “Did you steal it from my house?”

  “From your house?” Ms. Miranda looked at her dubiously. “No. I’ve never stolen a book from a reader’s house, no matter how overdue or off-limits it was.” She gave a little grin. “If you smuggled that book out, and it ended up back here somehow . . .” The grin faded slightly. “I’m honestly not sure what to say.”

  “But . . .” Fiona shook her head. The hundreds of questions inside sloshed around. “Wait. Why didn’t you tell me all this about The Lost One back when I asked?”

  One of Ms. Miranda’s eyebrows rose. “Well, first, if you had found that book, it was fairly likely that you’d been snooping in off-limits parts of the library. That didn’t make you seem one hundred percent trustworthy. Second, if I’d told you that the book you’re holding is a one-of-a-kind, unfinished mystery that’s not supposed to leave its bedroom, wouldn’t I basically have been telling you to steal it?”

  Fiona chewed a chocolate, stalling. “I guess I might have tried to take it,” she answered. “Probably.”

  “And third . . .” Ms. Miranda’s eyes flickered over Fiona’s face, and Fiona had the sensation that she was being read like fine print on a page. “You know what? Why don’t you tell me what you’ve figured out about the story first?”

  Fiona swallowed.

  How far could she trust Ms. Miranda? And did it even matter, when she was already caught, trapped in a dead end of unfinished stories?

  “I know the story is set here, in Lost Lake,” she began slowly. “I know Hazel and Pearl were really Evelyn and Margaret Chisholm. I know they lived here, in this house.”

  “Very good,” said Ms. Miranda. In her eyes, which were still focused on Fiona’s face, there wasn’t a single glimmer of surprise. “You’re right. Hazel and Pearl were obviously inspired by Evelyn and Margaret Chisholm.”

  “That’s why I need to find out the ending,” said Fiona, speaking faster now. “I know about the Searcher, and how Evelyn disappeared—but I need to know what really happened. Because if the place and the people are all real, then the story must be true.”

  Ms. Miranda kept quiet for a beat. “I used to have that theory too,” she said at last. Her voice was gentler than before. “After I read the story for the first time—the part of the story that exists, anyway—I looked into it. But the problem is: it isn’t true.” Ms. Miranda’s words came out softly, slowly, clearly. “Evelyn Chisholm didn’t disappear at all. She died.”

  Fiona rocked back. “You mean—did somebody—”

  “It was nothing criminal,” Ms. Miranda stopped her. “She got sick. Probably pneumonia. She passed away in her own bed, right upstairs.”

  A shiver ran from Fiona’s feet to the top of her spine. No wonder there had been a strange hush in that room. “But . . .” She shook her head again, trying to pull these new ideas together. “But if Evelyn just died, and everyone knew where and how, then why would someone turn it into a mystery? Why would somebody make up just half of a story?”

  “That’s what people do,” said Ms. Miranda simply. “When they don’t know a whole story, they make one up.” She leaned back on the table. “I’ve lived and worked here for six years now. I know a few things about local history, including the kinds of things that don’t always get written down. Like that there were rumors about the Chisholm family long before Evelyn died.”

  “Rumors?”

  “This is a small town,” said Ms. Miranda. “And the Chisholms didn’t quite fit into it. They moved here, instead of coming from here. They were rich. They were a little odd. And Margaret and Evelyn were the oddest, running around in the woods all day, getting into all kinds of trouble. It’s not what people expected little rich girls to do back then. So the rest of the town spread stories about them. Some of them are still going around. Like that Evelyn ran off with the circus. Or she was snatched by the Searcher. Or that she was killed by someone in her own household, and they all covered it up.”

  These words seemed to dangle in the air for a moment.

  Fiona suddenly felt the entire house looming around them, as though it were listening in. It would be very easy to concoct creepy stories about a house like this.

  “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 ta
ble 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.