Connecting

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Knowing he’s out there somewhere, thinking of her, trying to help her, waiting for her, makes the task ahead a little less daunting.

  Calla ascends the stairway and makes her way down the hall, past her own bedroom, where the killer hid on that awful day.

  The door, like all the others, is closed. Maybe later she’ll go in and see if anything strikes her.

  Right now, she has tunnel vision.

  At the end of the hall, she opens the door and steps into the master bedroom she last visited in her dream.

  A hint of her mother’s designer perfume lingers in the air.

  But nothing else.

  Not a hint of her mother’s spirit; not a vision of the killer’s identity.

  Calla walks around the room, blinking away tears.

  She remembers all the times she curled up on the Caribbean-blue bedspread, watching Mom get fixed up to go someplace. From the time she was a little girl, she was fascinated by the grown-up rituals: perfume and pantyhose, makeup and hairspray. She wanted to look just like her mother when she grew up.

  But I didn’t want to be like her.

  No, she didn’t want to become a businesswoman—a workaholic, Dad called Mom when they argued.

  Mom always had to be doing something, going somewhere. She never relaxed, never took the time to just hang around the house, hang around with Dad and Calla.

  It was almost like she was running away, Calla realizes now.

  And maybe she was.

  Away from Dad? Or Darrin? Away from her past? Away from some nameless, faceless person who was stalking her?

  Her jaw set, Calla opens the top middle drawer of Mom’s bureau and fishes among silky undergarments for a key on a silken red cord. For a moment, she worries that it’s disappeared. No. Here it is.

  Was Mom aware that Calla knew where the key was hidden? Probably not, or she might have come up with a better hiding place.

  Closing her fist around it, Calla turns and leaves the bedroom, with all its memories.

  With a purposeful stride, she heads toward Mom’s home office on the opposite end of the hall.

  There, she fits the key into the lock on the shallow top drawer.

  Why didn’t it ever occur to her that normal people probably don’t keep their laptops locked away? That her mother might have something to hide? Something more than the financial documents she dealt with for work?

  She had no reason to give it much thought. Not then. But now . . .

  The drawer slides open and the laptop is right there, waiting for her.

  Her breath shallow with anticipation, Calla lifts it out, plugs it in, and turns it on.

  As it hums to life, she reaches into her pocket and removes the folded sheet of paper containing every possible password she could imagine.

  The computer seems to take forever to boot up.

  At last, she sits at the desk and goes right to the e-mail sign-on screen. Mom’s screen name is saved there, but the login box is empty.

  Calla gets to work methodically entering passwords from her list. There are well over a hundred, starting with combinations of names and dates and becoming more and more obscure. Like “Edgar,” the name of Calla’s pet goldfish when she was little. And “cottagerow,” for Odelia’s street back in Lily Dale.

  Nothing works.

  Frustrated, she closes her eyes, wondering what to do.

  Then a thought pops into her head.

  Maybe she could meditate on it, ask Spirit for the answer, the way she did that day in Patsy’s class, reading billets.

  Spirit, after all, led her to Geneseo and the purple neon house, and to Darrin/Tom.

  “Leolyn!” she says aloud, abruptly.

  It just popped into her head, but that’s it. It has to be. She knows it before her fingers have even typed it out and hit Enter.

  There’s an endless pause as the screen flickers, goes blank.

  Is it loading?

  “Oh my God,” Calla breathes, finding herself staring at Mom’s e-mail homepage.

  The in-box is full. A quick glance tells her it’s mostly spam, advertisements, and stuff from people who didn’t immediately realize she had passed away.

  Clicking over to the archives, Calla knows right where to look. She scrolls through to last February 14 and scans the e-mails that arrived that day.

  It isn’t hard to pick out the right one: the subject line reads Hello, Stranger.

  Her hand trembles as she moves the mouse over it and double clicks to open it.

  Dear Stephanie,

  It’s been over twenty years now and I’ve never stopped missing you. I’ve been following you from afar—thanks to the Internet—and I see that you have created a nice life for yourself in Florida with a husband and a daughter and a great job. I’m really proud of you, and nobody deserves those things more than you.

  I’m probably not doing you any favors by popping back into your life now, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, or everything that went wrong between us—or, mostly, lately, about everything that went right. There wasn’t much, but when it was good, it was great. Anyway, I know it’s an understatement to say that I’m sorry I left you the way I did, but at the time, I thought I had no choice. I definitely owe you an explanation. And I have one, if you’re willing to listen.

  Love always,

  Darrin

  Whoa.

  Calla hurriedly clicks into her mother’s Sent Mail archives.

  There is nothing from February 14, or the next day. But on the sixteenth, Mom did send a return e-mail.

  Darrin, I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear from you after all these years. I’m willing to listen. In person. Where are you? Steph

  Darrin’s response was immediate. He told her he was in New England, living under a new name, and that he would explain everything when they met. He would come to Florida, he said, the very next day if she wanted.

  Mom wrote back that she happened to have a business trip planned to Boston the following week.

  How’s that for fate? she wrote. Do you want to meet me there?

  He did.

  Of course he did.

  Calla feels sick inside, reading the exchange between her mother and another man, arranging a clandestine meeting to discuss God only knows what. To do God only knows what.

  There were no other e-mails for several days, over a week, and then the exchange began again. This time, Mom was the one who initiated the connection.

  Darrin (like I told you, I can never call you Tom, no matter what you want me to do, sorry!)—seeing you yesterday was incredible, despite everything.You said you wanted me to think about what you told me, about what happened back then, and I’ve done nothing but that since you left me at the airport. A part of me can’t believe it really even happened, but I know you wouldn’t lie.Yes, you made some mistakes—terrible mistakes— but I understand why you did what you did.You were a kid, and afraid, and you thought you were doing what was best for me, and for you, and for

  Calla looks up, startled, as a faint sound reaches her ears.

  It’s coming from somewhere downstairs—just the slightest rustling.

  Is someone else in the house with her?

  She sits absolutely still, sensing the stealthy movement below even before she hears the unmistakable tapping of footsteps on the tile.

  It isn’t a spirit. She’s had enough experience to realize that they tend not to sneak about furtively, and they don’t necessarily make human sounds, like footsteps.

  It’s not Lisa or Kevin, either. They wouldn’t creep into the house; they’d holler from downstairs, just like old times. And anyway, they wouldn’t have a key because Calla herself has the spare one Dad gave the Wilsons.

  And she locked the door behind her.

  Meaning, no one should be able to get in.

  But someone did, once before. Whoever pushed Mom down the stairs snuck into the house, crept up behind her, and . . .

  Instinctively, Calla c
loses the laptop, pulls the plug, and gingerly gets to her feet, careful not to squeak the chair. She moves as silently as possible to the storage closet across the room. It’s jammed with office supplies, file boxes, and hangers draped with her mother’s overflow wardrobe.

  Slipping inside, the laptop clutched against her stomach, Calla pulls the door quietly closed and flattens herself against the back wall, behind the clothes.

  Even if someone thought to look in the closet, she wouldn’t be visible.

  Someone . . . who can it possibly be?

  Huddled in the closet, enveloped in terror and the scent of her mother’s perfume, Calla wants to sob. Her heart aches in her clenched chest, racing so frantically that she’s certain it must be audible.

  Just don’t panic. Stay absolutely still.

  She can hear movement now through the thin panels of wood separating her and the intruder: footsteps in the hall, the creak of the den door being pushed open.

  Don’t move. Don’t you dare.

  She sucks in oxygen, eyes squeezed tightly closed, paralyzed with fear.

  Someone is moving around in the den.

  The closet door opens.

  There’s a pause.

  Then it closes again.

  Only when Calla hears the footsteps moving away, down the hall, does she dare to release her breath in a silent sigh of relief. But she stays right where she is, stays absolutely still.

  Then a shrill sound pierces the air.

  It’s her cell phone, ringing in her pocket.

  Panicked, she snatches it and flips it open to silence it.

  “Hello?” she hears on the other end of the line.

  Dear God. “Jacy, shh—”

  “Calla, you’ll never believe this.”

  She can hear the intruder coming for her now, no longer moving stealthily, but with deliberate footsteps headed right for the closet.

  Oh, no . . . oh, please . . .

  In her ear, Jacy says in a rush, “I found the coat of arms with the heart and daggers. I couldn’t believe it, but I checked it a couple of times, and—”

  The door jerks open, and the closet is flooded with light.

  A bony hand reaches out and roughly jerks the hanging garments aside.

  Calla gasps in recognition at the woman standing there, and she knows before she hears the name spilling from Jacy’s mouth what he’s going to say.

  “Logan. The name is Logan, Calla!”

  The woman who lives in the purple house in Geneseo— the woman who greeted them so hostilely the night they showed her the photo of Darrin—reaches for Calla with a menacing snarl.

  She squirms out of reach, screaming into the phone, “Call the police! Jacy! She’s here! Help me!”

  She blurts her address so hysterically that she’s certain there’s no way he understood it. Then Sharon Logan is upon her, snatching the phone away with a hand bearing a gold signet ring.

  She hurtles the phone and it hits the wall and falls to the rug in pieces, silenced.

  Fury boils through Calla. “You killed my mother!”

  The woman’s thin lips curve a little, baring uneven teeth.

  “What makes you think that? Wait—don’t tell me—you’re a psychic. Like she was.”

  “My mother wasn’t a psychic.”

  “Really.” The smirk deepens. “Are you sure you knew everything about her?”

  Calla falters. No. She didn’t know everything about her.

  Not by a long shot.

  But she knows one thing.

  “You killed her,” she repeats, straightening her shoulders, defiant—perhaps foolishly so, but she can’t help herself. “I know you killed her. And you killed Darrin, too.”

  A shadow crosses those beady black eyes, and Calla knows she’s made a terrible mistake. She should have played dumb.

  Should have tried to escape immediately. Should have— The hands reach out for her.

  “No!” Still clutching the laptop, she writhes out of reach.

  The hands claw at her.

  She kicks upward, hard, hearing a gratifying grunt when her leg makes contact. Sharon Logan doubles over, clutching her stomach.

  Calla darts for the door, taking an extra split second to slam it closed behind her.

  Then she hurls herself for the stairs.

  Please don’t let me fall . . .

  She can hear Sharon Logan coming out of the room, coming after her.

  Mom, please don’t let me fall . . .

  She reaches the first floor and goes not for the front door, which would take too long to unlock with the chain and deadbolts, but toward the back of the house.

  In the kitchen, she flounders momentarily, nearly overcome by panic.

  Footsteps are racing toward her.

  Calla runs into the changing room and locks the door behind her.

  She leans against it, panting.

  Is it safer to escape to the pool area, which is fenced in, or hide in here until the police arrive?

  If they’re even coming.

  Could Jacy possibly have understood the address she blurted out?

  Shouldn’t she hear sirens by now?

  No, it’s probably only been a few minutes since she was on the phone with him. It feels like a lifetime.

  Oh, Jacy . . . Oh, Mom . . . I’m so scared.

  She listens for movement on the other side of the door but hears nothing.

  She’s not naive enough to think Sharon Logan abandoned the chase . . . but she could very well have moved on to the other end of the first floor, searching. It’s a big house, and she might not have seen which direction Calla took at the bottom of the stairs.

  She glances longingly at the door leading outside.

  If she can make it across the pool area undetected, she can probably scale the fence. And scream for help.

  Only, this is Florida.

  It’s not like Lily Dale, where people practically live outside when the weather is nice.

  Here, they’re all insulated in their climate-controlled homes. Calla hasn’t seen a soul in the neighborhood other than the ghost of Mrs. Evans next door.

  If she screams for help, there’s a solid chance no one will hear.

  And there’s a chance she won’t be able to make it over the tall fence. It’s not like it’s a chain link, easy to climb.

  Then again, if she stays here, sooner or later Sharon Logan will find her.

  She might break down the door, like something out of a horror film.

  And then she’ll kill me, like she killed Mom.

  Calla has no choice.

  She has to make a run for it.

  But first, she opens the cupboard where they keep the bright-colored beach towels. She slips the laptop in among the stack, making sure it’s not visible. There. At least it will be safe there until she comes back.

  If I come back.

  No. She can’t think that way.

  She peers through the blinds. The coast is clear. No sign of anyone lurking in the backyard.

  It’s now or never. Go.

  Breath held, she quietly unbolts the back door . . .

  Painstakingly turns the knob . . .

  Opens the door . . .

  Takes a step through . . .

  Closes it behind her.

  Immediately, she realizes that she forgot to turn the button in the knob, locking herself out.

  There’s no going back.

  Swift-footed, she makes her way across the flagstones, toward the pool and the fence beyond. She glances over her shoulder at the house to make sure she’s not being followed. Too late, she realizes that the danger isn’t behind her, it’s leaped out in front of her.

  The signet ring glints ominously in the sun as a hand closes around Calla’s upper arm. “Where are you going?”

  “Get away from me! Help! Someone, help!”

  Fighting like a panther, Calla fends off her captor, breaks away. But only for a moment, then she’s tumbled to the hard ground, rolling, s
cratching, wrestling.

  Again, she manages to scramble out of reach, and for a moment, she believes she’s free.

  Then she realizes that the hard ground is no longer beneath her, and she’s falling . . .

  Landing on something pliant.

  The covered pool.

  The tarp holds her weight for a few moments.

  Long enough for her to remember Jacy’s vision of her struggling in the water.

  Then the tarp sinks, and she’s floundering in warm, rank water.

  Is this how it’s going to end?

  Is she going to drown?

  No! You’ll be okay . . . you can swim . . .

  Except the tarp is there, tangling around her like an octopus, and her attacker is there, too. In the water with her, on top of her, holding her under.

  Calla struggles to break the surface, her lungs bursting hot with the need for air.

  Viselike hands hold her under, suffocating her, and it’s just like Jacy said, and she’s going to die here, at this house, like her mother did.

  And what about Dad? What’s he going to do now?

  With a mighty burst of adrenaline, she fights. Hard. Fights for her life. She breaks the surface, manages to gulp air before the hands push her under again.

  No!

  This can’t happen.

  She won’t let this happen.

  But she’s weakening, and water is filling her mouth, and she’s no match for Sharon Logan’s shocking brute strength, and . . .

  And suddenly, the hands are gone.

  Gone, and she’s floating.

  Am I dead?

  No.

  She’s alive.

  Alive, freed, sputtering, lifting her head from the water, trying to force air past the water that’s clogging her throat.

  “Help her! Help the girl!” a male voice shouts, and Calla sees a police officer, sees several of them, sees a dripping-wet Sharon Logan in their clutches, just before she blacks out.

  Tampa Police Headquarters

  9:52 p.m.

  “What I don’t get,” Calla says to her father later—much later, that night, after he’s arrived in Tampa, where she was waiting for him at the police station with the Wilsons—“is why she did it.”