She knows, too, that Sharon killed Darrin. His murder, in Portland, Maine, a few weeks before Mom's, remains officially unsolved.

n.o.body could possibly link Darrin to Mom. As far as she can tell, neither her father nor the Florida police have any idea he even existed.

He died under an a.s.sumed name, Tom Leolyn, having been missing from Lily Dale for almost twenty years. He contacted Mom this past Valentine's Day, wanting to see her. She snuck away to meet him in Boston, where, apparently, he dropped a bombsh.e.l.l on her.

Something about their child, and something he did for which he wanted her forgiveness.

That was as far as Calla could bring herself to read back in Florida.

Dad and the police don't know about the e-mails.

Maybe they should be told. Maybe Calla should forget about protecting Dad, or figuring things out on her own. Maybe she should just spill the whole story.

But what would she gain from that?

n.o.body knows why Sharon Logan did what she did, but maybe it really was random. Anyway, she's in custody. She can't hurt anyone now.

And if Calla tells what she knows, Mom's secret baby and affair would be dragged out into the open.

Calla looks at her father.

He's wearing a faraway expression, eyes glistening with tears.

He's thinking about Mom.

I can't let him find out that she was in love with another man, sneaking around to be with him. That would kill him.

Now that he's here in Lily Dale, can she bring herself to find out what really happened between her mother and Darrin? What if the truth comes out, anyway? Then Dad will have to live forever with the knowledge that his wife had a baby with another man, hid it from him, and then cheated on him.

How could you, Mom? How could you do this to him? To us?

THREE.

"How about that coffee now, Jeff?"Gammy asks, pushing her chair back from the table.

"Sure. Thanks."

"And you need something sweet to go with it."

"You know me, Odelia."

She does know him. Somehow Calla is surprised to hear her grandmother acknowledge Dad's little quirk: that he always likes to have a cookie or sweet roll with his coffee.

But then, Dad was Odelia's son- in-law long before he was Calla's father. She probably knew him well, way back when. She used to visit them a lot in the old days, before the rift.

"You know, Jeff,"Gammy bustles over to the counter, "you look light years younger without that gray beard. I'm glad you finally shaved it off."

"It wasn't all gray."

"Mostly gray."

"Well . . . yeah."

"What made you decide to get rid of it? You've had it forever.""Not forever. Only since the third grade."Dad winks at Calla across the table as Odelia chuckles.

He does look light years younger, Calla notices. His black hair is still slightly s.h.a.ggy, but it actually has some shape to it now, thanks to some fancy LA barber.

He's also exchanged his wire- rimmed gla.s.ses for contact lenses, bringing out his dark brown eyes. His T-shirts haven't been as ratty as usual, either.

It's so ironic. Mom would have been pleased to see him spruced up. She was always nagging him about the way he looked.

Now that she's gone, he's grooming himself and dressing the way she wished he would have.

Calla can't help but wonder whether it's just a sad coincidence . . . or whether the way he looks now has something to do with Mom being gone.

Maybe he's dating again already.

Or maybe he just wants to.

She can't help but think again of Ramona.

"You know, I never really spent much time worrying about stuff like that,"he says, mostly to her grandmother. "You know . . . the gray beard. It was just there. Like everything else. But lately, I've had a lot of time to think about things, the way they've been, and decided to try to change whatever needs changing."

"Like shaving."Gammy shoots a glance in Calla's direction.

So does Dad. "Like a lot of things."

"Well, I'm really going to like having you around for a while, Jeff. We haven't spent much time together since . . . Florida."

Florida. Gammy means the funeral. She flew down, of course, and stayed with them. Before that, Calla hadn't seen her in years.

That's the other thing. . . .

The argument that's been haunting Calla since she arrived here, in a recurring dream. The scene is always the same: her mother and grandmother are emotional, angry, screaming at each other.

Calla has no doubt that the argument actually took place years ago, though she's not sure whether she witnessed it herself or is psychically channeling it.

". . . because I promised I'd never tell . . ."Mom sobs.

". . . for your own good . . ."Odelia says, and then, ". . . how you can live with yourself . . ."

Then one of them-Calla isn't sure which-declares, with chilling certainty: "The only way we'll learn the truth is to dredge the lake."

Now that she knows what she knows about Mom and Darrin's past . . .

Calla thoughtfully watches Odelia pour coffee, chatting easily with Dad.

Does she know about the baby?

And what does dredging the lake have to do with anything? Calla no longer smells lilies of the valley, but maybe Aiyana will come to her with some kind of message, like she has in the past.

Abruptly, she pushes back her chair.

Gammy asks, "Where are you going?"

To find Aiyana.

"Can I call Jacy?"

Seeing the dubious expression on both their faces, Calla realizes she probably should have said she was calling Evange-line instead.

But she and Evangeline aren't exactly on friendly terms these days-all the more reason Dad's stay next door will be awkward.

Well, if not Evangeline, then Calla should have said she was calling someone else. Someone who wasn't an accomplice in her mission to Geneseo and her lie to her grandmother.

Now, whenever she's with Jacy, the two of them, Gammy and Dad, are going to think she's sneaking around behind their backs. Great.

It's her father who speaks up first. "Go ahead. Go call Jacy."

"Thanks."

As she leaves the kitchen, she realizes she was really asking her grandmother's permission-not his. She's been answering to Gammy ever since she moved here. Dad, living thousands of miles away, hasn't had much say over what she does on a daily basis.

That, of course, is no longer the case.

Now she'll have to report to both Dad and Gammy- and they'll be total watchdogs after all she's been through. She'll be lucky if they let her go away to college next fall.

Which reminds her . . .

She's supposed to be narrowing down her choices and meeting with her guidance counselor about it in a few days.

Not to mention, she's got a pile of weekend homework to get to before tomorrow morning.

The last thing she feels like doing right now is worrying about any of that.

Jacy . . . I really do need to talk to Jacy.

She swings through the living room to grab the cordless phone receiver, then heads up the stairs with it, her duffel, and her mother's laptop. She'll hide that away until she feels like dealing with whatever additional information might be buried in its files.

Gert is waiting at the top of the stairs.

"Hi, kitty. Did you miss me? Hmm?"

The cat rubs against Calla's legs, purring.

"I know . . . . I missed you, too."Calla reaches down to stroke her soft fur. "Do you want to sleep on my bed tonight?"

Abruptly, Gert arches her back and thrusts her paws forward on the floor.

Calla laughs. "Is that a yes?"

Then she realizes Gert has fastened her feline gaze on something over Calla's shoulder. She turns just in time to see a filmy apparition drift into the wall.

They really are everywhere.

This morning the airport-and the plane, too-were loaded with spirits along for the ride, drawn by the pa.s.sengers' nervous energy, no doubt.

If there's anything Calla has learned lately about the dearly departed, it's that in order to manifest, their spirits feed off human-and sometimes electrical, or technological- energy.

And that animals are particularly aware of their presence.

Gert is still keeping a wary eye on the wall where the apparition disappeared. There was originally a doorway there, Gammy told Calla.

"It's okay, Gert."She leans over to pet the kitten. "It's just, you know, a . . . visitor. You'll get used to them, like me. Well, I mean, I'm trying to."

Gert looks at the wall, and then at Calla for another long moment, before turning and strolling down the stairs.

Feeling depleted, Calla steps over the threshold into Mom's girlhood bedroom, with its old-fashioned white beadboard and striped wallpaper and sage-and-rose color scheme.

As she sets her belongings on the floor and inhales the familiar smell of old wood and clean linens, an unexpected wave of relief washes over her.

There's Mom's white iron twin bed covered in a patchwork quilt pieced together from Mom's little-girl dresses. There's Mom's carved wooden music box filled with her jewelry. There are Mom's childhood books on the shelves, progressing from the Little House series to The Outsiders to Flowers in the Attic.

And there, Calla realizes with a jolt, is Mom herself.

Mom, not as Calla knew her, but as she appeared at Calla's age, when she lived here. When she looked so much like Calla does now-same slim, long- waisted build; same wide- set hazel eyes; same thick, milk-chocolate- colored hair streaked with lighter shades of brown-that if they were facing each other, it would be like gazing into a mirror.

She's lying on her stomach on the bed, reading a book- one of the Little House books, Calla sees. Her legs are bent at the knees, feet waving lazily in the air, as though she hasn't a care in the world.

Then, as abruptly as the apparition appeared, she's gone.

"Mom! Mom, wait!"Calla rushes toward the bed, arms outstretched.

But the room is empty. The bed is empty. She's all alone.

Trembling, she sinks onto the mattress and touches the spot where she saw her mother.

Jacy once mentioned a theory that events can leave psychic imprints on the places where they occurred.

That's what must have happened; it's as if a door opened just long enough for Calla to glimpse the past before it was slammed shut again.