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After some time off, Kendall’s ready to begin ghost hunting again. But her life is still in flux. She misses Patrick, her new love. She needs to find a photographer to replace Taylor. Plus, she may have discovered who her real father is, but to be sure, she has to convince his family she’s not a fake.
And then there’s a certain doll that seems to be out to get her and her friends. A doll? How could that be? Unless, perhaps, it’s not just a doll. Maybe it’s a vessel containing the soul of a man so evil in life, not even death could stop his reign of terror. This could be Kendall’s most terrifying and deadliest encounter yet.
Chapter One
I’m about to walk into a stranger’s place of business, introduce myself, and ask the million-dollar question of my life: Do you know who my father is?
How freakin’ messed up is that?
I take a deep breath and slowly let out the pent-up air through my parted lips, allowing my lungs to stretch and contract like a taut rubber band. Maybe that’s the tightness I’m feeling in my chest. Yeah, right . . . couldn’t be the fact that I’m in St. Louis in search of someone who might know what man contributed the DNA that eventually became Kendall Moorehead.
Mom—my adopted mom, Sarah Moorehead—reaches over and rubs her hand on my jeaned kneecap. “We’re here,
sweetie. We can do this.”
I nod when I really want to shake my head back and forth and totally chicken out on this expedition. Stealing a look in the visor mirror, I check for mascara flakes or food in my teeth from the cookies I had on the plane from Atlanta. All clear.
Makeup . . . good. Clothes . . . mostly unwrinkled. Hair . . .
pulled away from face with a sparkly clip, brushed, and wavy.
I’m as ready to go as I can possibly be.
Mom puts her purse strap over her shoulder and fists the rental-car keys in her palm. I climb out and listen as the automatic locks click shut.
I squint into the Saturday-afternoon sunshine and glance at the gold-trimmed glass sign in front of the quaint art gallery on Twelfth Street here in downtown St. Louis. It reads andrea caminiti studio.
See, here’s the current sitch: I just got back from my Enlightened Youth Retreat in California, where I met my new boyfriend, Patrick Lynn (who’s psychic just like me), and I told the parentals about the vision I had about the person who may or may not be my biological father. My bestie, Celia Nichols,
dug up information on the name that I saw in my vision: Andy Caminiti. Actually, the name was Andi Caminiti. So, either my real dad had a sex change (eww!) or I’m about to meet a member of his immediate family.
My psychic awareness tells me it’s the latter.
“Let’s go, Kendall,” Mom says. She leads the way across the sidewalk and through the double-glass doors of the art gallery.
My nostrils pick up the smell of turpentine, oil paint, and scented candles. Canvases adorn the left wall, laser whips of splashed colors in abstract patterns. To the right are more traditional artsy pieces of rolling hills, sunsets, beaches, and landscapes done in charcoal and watercolors. A spiral staircase in the middle leads upward to a wide-open loft area that I can see is full of black-and-white photographs of people. Close-ups of eyes, mouths, arms, and . . . is that a picture of a bellybutton?
Weird . . . yet beautifully shot.
For a moment, I consider this woman, Andi Caminiti, who is quite well known in the art community of St. Louis, Missouri,
and I wonder how in the world I could possibly be related to such a talented person. I can barely draw stick figures.
A young girl with tight curls and fashionable black glasses greets us.
“Welcome to Andrea Caminiti’s gallery,” she says. “I’m Liza.
May I show you around?”
Mom gently clears her throat. “Thank you, Liza, but we have an appointment.”
Liza adjusts her glasses on her plump face. “You must be Mrs. Moorehead. Andi will be right down to see you. Have a seat and I’ll get you some bottled water while you wait.”
We smile and move behind Liza over to an area where two white-leather couches sit facing each other. When I came home from California and told Mom and Dad all about my psychic visions and the connection to the name in St. Louis,
my ’rents didn’t hesitate to go online and book two tickets out here to St. Louis for this Saturday morning. Mom called ahead to the gallery on the pretext of wanting to purchase some of the artist’s work for our new house . . . so here we are.
Liza holds out two cold, plastic bottles. “Sparkling or still?”
“Still, thanks.”
I take the proffered drink, twist off the cap, and quickly douse the fiery burn in my throat. How am I going to do this?
Do I have the guts to reveal what I know to a total stranger?
Will she be nice? Mean? Will she kick us out, or, worse, call the police and have them put us in the loony bin? Do we even still have loony bins in this country? These thoughts—who needs them?
My BlackBerry vibrates in my pocket, and I draw it out. Patrick is texting me. Of course he is. We’re cosmically connected.
Clam down. Everything will work out. P
I love how our brains and psyches are linked, even four states apart.
The tapping of three-inch heels on the wooden spiral staircase causes me to jerk my head up. I see her legs first. Long and lean, like a runner. A flowy black skirt then comes into view followed by a loose-fitting black chiffon top. From the back,
the woman is tall and thin with jet-black hair. As she turns, her ivory face is highlighted by bright red lipstick and lush black lashes surrounding her . . . hazel eyes. Wow—they’re sort of the same color as mine.
“Sarah?” she asks as she walks toward us with her right hand extended. “I’m Andi. So nice of you to come all this way to see my work.”
Mom and I both stand and the adults exchange handshakes.
I literally stare at the pretty lady in front of me, wondering how I’m going to start this convo. My throat becomes as arid as the California desert I flew over on the way home from my retreat. My eyes begin to water and I’m afraid that if I blink,
it’ll look like I’m crying. A stabbing pain cranks over my left eyebrow and I suddenly feel like I’ve been here before. Vuja de of another time. Been here, met her before. I don’t know why my psychic senses pick this exact moment to get all wibbletated.
New word Patrick taught me; he picked it up from kids at his previous school, in Tampa. Meaning “distorted.” And I think that totally defines my life these days.
Eyes that mirror my own turn to me, and Mom makes the introduction.
“This is my daughter Kendall. Thank you for taking the time to meet us.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” Andi says.
My hand slides into Andi’s delicate one and I suddenly see flashes of her as a child. Long black hair gathered in a ponytail that’s being pulled by a nearly identical twin. Only he’s a he.
Andy. Andy Caminiti. The name I envisioned. The two children are laughing and playing and wrestling over a go-cart. I pull my hand back, not wanting to invade memories of a family I may or may not be a part of.
Andi takes in my sudden action but smiles. “Have you had a chance to look around the gallery?”
“Not really, but it seems pretty cool to have your own gallery,”
I say.
“It is,” she says. “Took me a while, but here I am.” She pauses. “Are you an artist, Kendall?”
The laughter bubbles out before I can stop it. “No, ma’am.
Crayolas were never my friend.”
Mom sets her hand on my shoulder. “Kendall’s talents lie in other areas.” She stops a moment and I know she’s going to get this picnic rolling. “Perhaps we can sit somewhere more private so we can discuss . . . things.”
Andi’s bright red smile widens. “Certainly. Come up to my office and we can talk about your decorating needs and if you want something photographic for your space or something on a canvas.”
I feel sort of bad that we’re leading this nice lady on, but it’s what we have to do.
After fifteen minutes of touring the upstairs photo gallery and then flipping through Andi’s portfolio in her office, I can’t take it anymore. The intense stabbing pain over my eyebrow is a reminder of my mission here.
“You have very lovely work, Andi,” Mom says. “I think that black-and-white photo of the St. Louis arch would look lovely in—”
I stop her with my hand on her arm. “Mom.”
She lifts her eyes to mine and then licks her lips nervously.
She knows I’m ready.
“Ms. Caminiti,” I start.
“Andi, please.”
I repeat the name I’ve said a thousand times in my head.
“Andi. Thanks.” I swallow hard through the daggered dryness.
I can do this. “Andi, your artwork is totally gorgeous, but there’s another reason that Mom and I came all this way to talk to you.”
She sits back and then laces her fingers together in her lap.
“Go ahead.”
“You see . . . umm . . . like, I’m adopted. My birth mother was . . . Emily Jane Faulkner.”
Psychic abilities aren’t needed to read Andi Caminiti’s reaction.
The name is not foreign to her. “I see.”
“Do you?” I ask pointedly. “You know that name?”
She shrugs, very noncommittal.
I push forward. “I’m the daughter of Emily Jane Faulkner and, perhaps, of your brother, Andy Caminiti. They dated in college and both disappeared seventeen years ago. Neither has been heard from since.”
Andi pushes out of her chair and strides over to the window.
Her eyes stare out ahead through the pane as her index finger rests between her teeth. “It’s widely known that my twin brother disappeared many years ago. What exactly do you want,
Miss Moorehead?”
My brief stint in studying auras and the bit I learned from my roomie at the retreat, Jessica Spencer, tells me that Andrea Caminiti is six kinds of pissed off at me at this moment. The vibrant red that radiates off her head tells me of her fear and strong anxiety. Wisps of black float through the red aura. From what I learned from Jess, this means hatred, negativity, depression.
My heart hurts for the pain I must be causing Andi with this conversation. I can’t blame her for being greatly irritated with me. Some stranger shows up wanting to buy her art, and then the convo turns to something personal and painful.
I too stand. “I just want you to listen. I’ve psychically seen your brother and Emily in the burning car wreck that took their lives seventeen years ago. I believe that Andy died that night, and had it not been for the paramedics that got Emily out of the car and to the hospital—where my mom was an emergency-room nurse—I would have died too.”
I give her a moment as I watch her eyes grow wide.
My pulse trills under my skin. “I’m psychic, and my visions have brought me to you. I’ve seen your name and I’ve been led here to find my family.”
The woman isn’t having any of this. It’s at this moment that I wish I’d opted for the speech-communication class this semester so I’d know exactly what to say and how to show the proper body language to calm her unease. This is certainly not the most fluid exchange I’ve ever had.
The once friendly and welcoming hazel eyes turn blazingly hella-bad on me. “Do you know how many psychics have walked through my door telling me they know where my brother is or what happened to him?”
“No, I just—”
“Dozens! Literally dozens of them! They’ve told me everything from Andy’s being a victim of a serial killer to his joining the merchant marines and sailing off to Asia to his being involved in the slave trade. I’ve had psychics tell me his soul was in my dog, represented in my artwork, and, best of all, living in an old bottle of sand that I have in my house that he and I collected together in Myrtle Beach when we were eleven. Do you know how many of these psychics’ stories I’ve hung my hat on, only to be vastly disappointed in the end when I still have no clue where he is or what happened to him?”
She stops her tirade to drink in air, and I take the opportunity to try to bring calm, if that’s even possible. “Yes, ma’am. I totally understand. I’ve struggled with this whole psychic awakening like you wouldn’t believe. But I’ve been right about so many things. And my visions brought me to the fact that Emily Jane Faulkner was my birth mother. She did date your brother in college, didn’t she?”
“That’s none of your business,” Andi snaps. I’ve hit a nerve.
“It is, though,” I say, nearly begging. “I’m trying to find out who I am. You are a missing piece of the puzzle.”
“That’s not my problem, young lady.”
Mom tries to intervene. “Andi, if you’d just—”
She spins on her high heels. “Just what? Have hope? Mrs.
Moorehead, I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to come to terms with my brother’s disappearance. My twin brother.
The person I shared a womb with. The person who was the only sibling I had. The person who was my best friend. I’ve been down this road before.” Andi’s eyes connect with mine again and then shift back to Mom. “This is an original act, I’ll admit. Pimping your daughter out as a psychic so I’ll react differently.
That’s rich.”
I flatten my lips. “It’s not an act, Andi.”
“Who are you to suddenly come out of the woodwork?”
Andi asks. The curls of black in her aura strengthen. “What do you want? A piece of the family fortune? You think that coming in here and saying you’re my missing, perhaps dead, brother’s long-lost child will entitle you to some sort of inheritance?”
What? “Umm . . . no. What money? Who cares about money? I just want to know who I am. Anything that might explain why I’m psychic and where I came from.”
Mom steps between Andi and me. “We apologize, Ms.
Caminiti, for any hurt or confusion we’ve caused. You have to understand that I’ll do anything for my daughter. Believe me, I doubted her abilities as well, but she’s the real deal.”
Andi crosses her slim arms over her middle. “That’s what they all say. I’d be much obliged if you two would just leave now. I’ll forget this discussion ever took place.”
Now tears do threaten, stinging at the back of my eyes. I know I’m connected to this woman. It’s so clear; it’s like gazing in a mirror and seeing my face looking back at me. “I don’t want you to forget this visit happened. I want you to remember.
I want you to think about any details of your brother’s life.
I want you to think of me.”
She hangs her head and her silky black hair surrounds her face. A soft, emotionally choked voice says, “Please show yourself out. I have work to do.”
I stretch my fingers to reach out to Andi, stopping only inches away from her. Flashed pictures dance through my head of Andi and me laughing together in the future, hugging even.
We are meant to be in each other’s lives.
My hand drops to my side and I muster up the courage to say one last thing. “I’m willing to submit to DNA testing to see if we’re related. Anything to know who I am and where I came from. No strings attached.”
The words hang in the air like drying laundry.
She scoffs and then extends her hand to indicate the spiral staircase. Mom tugs on mine and we descend to the main level.
Surprisingly enough, Andi follows; the clicking of her heels taps out her judgment.
I stop and turn. “Please?”
Our similar hazel eyes lock and I sense a light of hope in the irises. It’s brief, but it’s there. So I reach into my purse and pull out the index card I’d filled out earlier, in the rental car.
The one with my name, address, cell phone number, e-mail addy, Mom’s cell, and the landline at our house in Radisson. I give the neatly written information to Andi Caminiti and take her hand in mine. Her warmth spreads to me, and I feel that there’s a chance.
“Can we just try?”
JMCO
Posted January 12, 2013
I loved it!! Marley Gibson is a great writer! Once you start reading, it's very hard to put down!
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Posted October 23, 2012
I love the series but kemdall kinda annoys mme at times cuz shes always repeating herself. But other than that I WANT TO READ THE NEXT ONE
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Posted October 20, 2012
WHERES THE NEXT BOOK?
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Posted April 12, 2012
I love the sieries an u should read it to i do think i should be on ethe team jason or patrick because jason is protective because he has never experienced what kendall has but then again pat does understand her a little better and jason just left kendall hanging with no email or anything and when pat was there he was always by kendalls side but then again he did blow up a little to "mark his territory" of kendall whick makes me think he kind of thinks of her as a object but really deep inside i dont think he would even think that so really im with pat but its 1/2 and 1/2 right now im like :/ on both sides so i cant pick but if i had to it would have to be tea patrick
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Posted June 13, 2012
Best book ever go patrik he left herjason patrik would never di y,that
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Posted June 11, 2012
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Overview
After some time off, Kendall’s ready to begin ghost hunting again. But her life is still in flux. She misses Patrick, her new love. She needs to find a photographer to replace Taylor. Plus, she may have discovered who her real father is, but to be sure, she has to convince his family she’s not a fake.
And then there’s a certain doll that seems to be out to get her and her friends. A doll? How could that be? Unless, perhaps, it’s not just a doll. Maybe it’s a vessel containing ...