Long Lost
Dedication
To the librarians
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Fiona Crane’s earliest memory was of waiting for hours in the freezing cold, and it was all her sister’s fault.
In the memory, Fiona was seated in the gray metal bleachers of a huge metal building, bundled in a knot of blankets. A coloring book and a box of crayons lay on the bench beside her, but Fiona’s chilly little fingers in their knitted gloves were too clumsy to use them. Below her glowed a white oval of ice. And on that glowing ice, Fiona’s big sister, Arden, was skating.
It was easy to spot Arden among the figure skaters. When the beginners’ class glided forward, arms spread and back legs lifted, Arden’s arms were spread widest. Her leg was lifted highest. Meanwhile, Fiona’s backside was numb, her nose was running, and she was tired of sitting with her mom in this skating rink, waiting for her big sister to be done.
But as Fiona was already figuring out, even at three years old, that was life with Arden Crane. Watching. Waiting. Squeezing your life into whatever space was left for you.
Now eleven-year-old Fiona Crane was learning that life as Arden’s sister could mean something even worse. It could mean packing up your possessions, moving across the state of Massachusetts, and ending up in a little town named Lost Lake, miles and miles from anyone you know.
With a deep breath, Fiona hoisted another box out of the stuffy moving truck.
The house the Cranes had bought was called a colonial—not just because it had a long, flat front with shuttered windows, but because it had been built in colonial times. It had floorboards that groaned, and windows with tiny panes, and doors that had shrunk or swollen until they didn’t quite fit in their frames. “That’s just what happens with old wood and changing temperatures,” her parents said about the doors that creaked open on their own, or that refused to stay shut in the first place. Fiona’s parents always knew the rational, scientific explanation for strange things.
Fiona liked rational, scientific explanations. She also liked strange old things—the older and stranger the better. Someday, Fiona would become either a historian or an archeologist, whichever turned out to be more interesting.
It wasn’t the age of the house that bothered her. It was how different it felt from the house back in Pittsfield, the house that felt like home. Plus, there was something weirdly dense and heavy about the air in this place—not just in the house, but throughout the whole town. Like maybe Lost Lake was so full of its own memories that there wasn’t room for Fiona’s family in it at all.
Fiona hefted the box up the creaking stairs to her new bedroom.
The door had closed itself. Fiona kicked it open. Stepping inside, she plunked her box down on a stack of other boxes, then spun back toward the door. Which was closing itself.
Again.
Fiona was trudging back down the staircase when a blur of black and purple flew past.
“Mom?” Arden called, dodging around Fiona so lightly that the steps didn’t even squeak.
“In the kitchen!” their mom called back.
Arden flitted toward the voice. Fiona tagged after her, like a slower, shorter shadow.
Fiona and Arden looked very much alike, as long as you didn’t look too closely. They both had their dad’s brown eyes, long eyelashes, and dark hair, although Arden’s hair always stayed sleek and Fiona’s was prone to tangles and frizz. Arden had inherited their mom’s pointed chin, while Fiona had gotten her dad’s square jaw, which made her look even more stubborn than she was. Arden was also five inches taller and moved like a dancing hummingbird, while Fiona moved like something cautious and short legged. Something like a guinea pig.
“Mom,” said Arden, darting into the kitchen doorway. “What are you doing?”
Their mom looked up from a pile of boxes. A smudge of newsprint streaked her forehead. Her right hand held two coffee mugs, and her left clutched a wad of newspaper. “You’re kidding, right?”
Arden shook her head. The tip of her ponytail whipped Fiona’s cheek. “It’s three thirty!”
“What?” Their mom glanced at the oven clock, which wasn’t programmed yet. She set down the mugs and pushed her springy red hair back from her forehead, leaving another smudge. “Already?”
“Mom, please,” said Arden. “I can’t be late!”
“Okay.” Their mom sighed. “Get your bag. I’ll meet you in the car.”
Fiona watched her sister flit out of sight. “Arden has to go to practice, even on moving day?”
“Not great timing, I know.” Her mom rinsed her hands in the sink, groped at the refrigerator handle for a towel that wasn’t there, and wiped her palms on her jeans instead. “You’ll have to help your dad finish unloading, ladybug. If we don’t return the moving van by five, we get charged for another full day.” She planted a kiss on Fiona’s forehead as she passed. “Thanks for being a team player.”
Moments later, the sound of the car roared through the house and dwindled away.
“Well, Fifi!” called her dad from the front door. “Ready to play beat the clock?”
The day was hot for mid-June. Inside the moving van, the air was stifling. Fiona clunked up and down the unloading ramp, her face prickling with sweat, her muscles growing rubbery. The heat seemed to needle its way beneath her skin.
It wasn’t fair that she and her dad were working alone. Not when the entire reason they’d moved to this town was for Arden, so that she could be closer to her figure skating club in the Boston suburbs. Her mom and dad kept saying the move was for the whole family, that it saved one of them from having to make the four-hour round trip with Arden four days a week, that it gave them