Wendy Corsi Staub - Lily Dale: believing

LILY DALE
BELIEVING

Wendy Corsi Staub

Dedicated to my newest little nephew, Harry,
aka Harrison Paul Sypko

And to Brody, Morgan, and Mark

The author is grateful to agents Laura Blake Peterson and Holly Frederick, as well as to Tracy Marchini, all at Curtis Brown, Ltd.; to Nancy Berland, Elizabeth Middaugh, and staff at Nancy Berland Public Relations; to Rick and Patty Donovan and Phil Pelleter at the Book Nook in Dunkirk, New York; to Emily Easton, Deb Shapiro, and everyone at Walker & Company; to Jean Doumanian, Patrick Daly, and Kim Jose at Jean Doumanian Productions; to Susan Glasier of the Lily Dale Assembly offices; to the Reverend Donna Riegel and members of her beginning mediumship class in Lily Dale; to Mark and Morgan Staub for their literary expertise and creative feedback; and to Brody Staub, just because hes Brody.

Contents

Monday, September 3
Erie, Pennsylvania
11:42 p.m.

She realizes, the moment she reaches the dark street and pats the back pocket of her jeans, that she doesnt have her cell phone.

Great.

Whats she supposed to do now? Go back and look for it?

She turns and looks back at the house. Towering, with turrets, the three-story brick mansion might once have been beautiful. Now occupied by students at nearby Gannon University, the old homes doors and windows gape wide open, spilling stray people and loud music into the crisp September night. With a new semester just under wayand a party in full swingthere are cars on the lawn and bikes on the porch.

No way am I going back in there.

Not after someone figured out shes just a high school student and informed the hosts, who quicklyand loudly kicked her out.

Talk about humiliating.

Why am I even here?

She usually doesnt go sneaking around behind her parents backs, crashing college parties, but her friend Maria whos still somewhere inside, flirting with some guytalked her into it.

Now shes going to wonder where I am.

Well, too bad. Shes not about to go back in to look for Maria. Or the phone, which she probably didnt even have with her in the first place. Or even her jacket, which she definitely did have with her and left draped over a chair inside.

Summers definitely over, she thinks, wishing she had the jacket now. Shivering in her skimpy pink ribbed tank top, she checks her silver bracelet watch.

Its almost midnight. The original plan was for her to call her dad to come pick her and Maria up at the pizza-and-wings place around the corner, which is where theyre supposedly hanging out after a movie on this last summer night before they start their senior year.

No phone, no jacket,no Maria... now what?

Her parents are going to kill her if she misses her curfew. Theyve been really touchy lately. They totally freaked last week when she bleached her reddish hair blond, right before she had her picture taken with the cheerleading squad for the back-to-school issue of the local paper.

Youd think she had pierced her tongue or gotten a tattoo or something, the way Mom and Dad carried on. If they ever find out she was at a college party...

Youd better start walking, she tells herself firmly, tossing her newly blond hair.

Heading away from the lit-up party house, down the dark, deserted, unfamiliar street, she tries not to think about any of the horror movies shes seen. Naturally, they are all she can think about. Every tree, every parked car, seems to conceal a lurking ax murderer or fiery-eyed demon.

Stop it.You are such a loser.

She turns a corner, and then another. The night is deadly still. Her pink rubber flip-flops make a hollow slapping sound on the concrete sidewalk.

Something else reaches her ears, then: an approaching car. She hears it coming before she sees the headlights swing onto the block.

It seems to slow down as it comes closer, catching her in its bright spotlight with nowhere to hide. Already jittery, she now feels borderline frantic. She walks faster, heart racing.

The car is creeping now, coming up right alongside her. She hears the whir of an electric window being lowered, and a perfectly ordinary-sounding masculine voice calls, Excuse me, miss? You shouldnt be out here alone right now. Miss?

Holding her breath, she turns reluctantly toward the car. A man is behind the wheel.

Her mother always said never talk to strangers, but what is she supposed to do? Ignore him? Anyway, shes a safe distance away. Its not like he can pull her into the car from there. She can always run and scream bloody murder if he tries.

She cant make out his features in the dark, but she sees him reaching into his pocket. Her stomach lurches. Is he going to pull out a gun and force her into the car?

Shes about to take off when she sees something glint and realizes its not a gun at all.

Its a badge.

Oh. Thank goodness. Her knees go weak with relief. Hes a cop.

We had an attempted rape over on French Street. The perp took off running in this direction. You havent seen him, have you? Tall guy, over six feet, with dark hair, about two-ten, two-twenty pounds, wearing a dark jacket and cap.

No. I havent seen him. She looks around fearfully, half expecting the hulking suspect to jump out from behind the nearest shrub and attack.

Okay, thanks. The detective starts to roll up the window. Just be careful, okay? he calls, then adds, You dont have far to go, do you?

I... uh, I was going to walk home, but its up off of East Twelfth. And actual escaped rapists are way scarier than imaginary ax murderers and fiery-eyed demons. Do you have a phone I can borrow to call my parents for a ride?

I do, but what are you going to do after you call? Wait around alone out here for them to come and get you? Youll be a sitting duck. He leans over and opens the passengers-side door with a sigh. Get in. Ill take you home.

He doesnt sound thrilled about it, but she hurries gratefully toward the car.

She settles into the seat. The car is warm. Good. That feels much better. If he hadnt come along, who knows what might have happened to her alone out here?

The detective rolls up the window and locks her door from the control on the drivers side.

There, he says. Safe and sound, right?

Right. Thanks.

Whats your name? he asks as the car picks up speed.

Its Erin.

Hi, Erin. Im Phil.

Phil? Thats odd. Shouldnt he be calling himself Detective Something?

He comes to a light and stops the car. When it changes, he turns the corner.

Oops. Um... Detective? She cant bring herself to call him by his first name. East Twelfth is that way.

He says nothing, just keeps driving as if she hadnt spoken. Maybe he didnt hear her.

Excuse me? I live back that way, she repeats, and an uneasy feeling begins to creep over her again.

Still, he ignores her. He goes around another corner, again heading in the wrong direction, taking the turn so fast the tires screech.

Should a police officer be driving so recklessly? And shouldnt he know his way around? And shouldnt he be listening to her when she tells him hes going the wrong way?

You know what? I need to get out, she blurts, stark fear transforming her voice into a little girls, high pitched and vulnerable. Please. Let me out.

She realizes that a faint smile is playing at the corners of his mouth. No. Not a smile at all.

A smirk.

He lied, she realizes in a burst of sheer panic. He isnt a detective at all.