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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780547393087 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 05/02/2011 |
| Series: | Ghost Huntress Series , #5 |
| Pages: | 264 |
| Sales rank: | 728,768 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.80(d) |
| Age Range: | 12 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
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.
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?”