Chapter One
CHRISTY
Christy watched the auditorium fill with people as the camera crew jockeyed
for position. Confident in her abilities but terrified to realize that millions of
people were about to watch her in action, she prayed that her Grandma would
come to oversee the spirit world. The last thing she needed was some errant,
disgruntled spirit running—or floating—amok today.
An unseen announcer’s voice blared over the airwaves. “I am pleased to
introduce, to our studio audience and our television viewers, the gifted and
world-renowned medium Christy Soledad.” Thunderous applause greeted a
tall, confident woman who could as easily have been a model as a medium.
Sam Johnson watched as the graceful young woman approached the
center of the stage. She was not what he had expected. “She’s a knockout,” he
whispered to his associate. “Is she married?”
“Get over it, Sam,” his associate whispered back. “You’re here to question
her abilities, not to ask her out.”
Sam had begrudgingly agreed to interview this so-called world-renowned
medium because his job as a reporter for Rumors, the
which he worked as a scandal reporter, depended on it. He had expected
to find a portly, middle-aged woman with thick glasses and gray hair on
the stage; instead, a beautiful brunette with dark brown eyes and a striking
figure stood before him. Thanks to the magazine, he and his accompanying
photographer had scored front-row seats. His job today was to pretend to be
an ordinary audience member searching for answers from his dead father.
His father, of course, was not dead. The question was designed to trip up
the so-called psychic who claimed she could talk to the dead. Then, after
interviewing her and taking pictures, he would expose her as a fraud to the
magazine’s readership.
Sam felt a sharp elbow in his rib cage. “She’s pointing at you. Ask your
question.”
Embarrassed, Sam realized that the medium was indeed looking at him.
He had dutifully raised his hand when she asked the studio audience for volunteers, but his mind had quickly floated off into some imaginary bedroom
with her.
“Stand up please, sir.” The voice of an angel was beckoning him. “What
is your question?”
After what seemed an eternity to the photographer seated next to him,
Sam finally stood up. “Uh, yes, thank you. My father died last year, and the
family has been searching for money he supposedly hid in his house. Can you
ask him where it is?”
Christy could see a shadow over the questioner, but the vibration was
distinctly feminine. “Sir, if your father has indeed passed on, he is unwilling
or unable to approach. But there is a woman here who would like a word with
you. Her name is Mary. Do you know who Mary is?”
Sam, still doubtful, shrugged his shoulders as if the name was unfamiliar
to him.
“What?” Christy chided him. “You don’t know your own mother’s
name?”
Shocked, Sam stammered, “Yes, that was my mother’s name.”
“She wants to know when you’re going to write that book you used to
dream about writing. She says she’s happy, but she looks forward to seeing
your father when he does eventually cross over. Oh, and by the way, she’s okay
with the fact that he remarried and found happiness. She says you should ‘get
over it.’” The audience roared with laughter.
Sam was so startled that he barely managed to mumble “Thank you”
before sitting back down.
Christy had learned long ago that there would always be someone in the
audience who would try to discredit her abilities. She was glad to have gotten
it over with in the first question of the night; this would, hopefully, discourage
anyone else from lying.
She went on to the next person. “Now, let’s go on to serious audience
members who are truly seeking to hear from loved ones who have passed on
to the spirit world.”
For as long as Christy could remember, she could see and speak to the
dead. It had all started at her grandmother’s funeral, when she was eight years
old. She could see her standing beside the casket, smiling as she took in the
sight of her entire family gathered together to pay homage to her life.
“Why aren’t you crying like everyone else?” her pesky little brother Jason
chided her.
“Because I see Grandma. She’s standing over there. She’s not dead.” Her
brother’s scorn and ridicule had embarrassed Christy to such a degree that she’d begged him not to tell their mother. But of course little brothers relish
nothing more than a chance to tattle on their older sisters.
After the funeral, when everyone had left the old Southern mansion that
had been so cherished and carefully adorned by her grandmother, Christy’s
mother had confided an important secret to her. “Your grandmother could see
and talk to the dead. You might have inherited her abilities. If so, we need to
talk about how you’ll go about your life with visions of the dead around you.
I don’t have that ability, but I watched your grandmother. I know enough to
guide you.”
At the age of eight, Christy was too young to absorb the full meaning
of her newly discovered talent. Comforted by her mother’s supportive words,
she scampered off to play. Two years later, when Christy was ten, the universe
called upon her to use her talents: A girl of about thirteen appeared to her.
The child’s transparent spiritual form appeared battered and bruised. She
indicated that she wanted Christy to follow her. With the help of her mother,
Christy allowed the ghost to lead her to the place of her murder, a fresh grave
in the backyard of a house occupied by a reclusive old man. An anonymous
phone call was made to the police, and the murderer was put behind bars.
No one ever learned how the crime was discovered. Christy’s mother
made sure that her daughter’s gift was never exposed outside of the family.
At the age of sixteen, Christy began to help family and friends cope with the
loss of loved ones. Gradually word began to spread in her neighborhood in
to the dead. As time went on and other mediums publicly acknowledged
similar abilities, mother and daughter finally deemed it safe to share their
secret with the world.
Backstage, after the séances were over, Christy thought briefly about the
man who had tried to show her up. Just as she visualized his appearance in
her mind, he appeared at her dressing room door.
“Hi! I’m Sam Johnson from Rumors. We have an appointment.”
Her first impression had been correct; before her stood a very good looking
guy, a guy too cocky for his own good or hers. “You’re the guy who
tried to pull one over on me. Don’t you believe in spirits?”
“I’m sorry about that. I was planning to expose you as a fraud in my
magazine article. But you know what they say about best laid plans of mice
and men. I hope you’ll give me an interview anyway.”
“So what’s your opinion now? Do you still think that I’m a fraud?”
“I must admit that I was impressed by your performance.” Christy was trying very hard not to be defensive but for some reason it
was important to her that the reporter respect her. “Is that what you think
I’m doing? Performing?”
“Can you convince me otherwise?”
“It’s been my experience that skeptics are very hard to convince. You
would be wasting my time. And why should I give an interview to someone
who plans to expose me as a fraud?” But the question was for her ego only
because Christy could see Mary hovering behind her son. Her energy was
pleading with Christy to give Sam a chance.
The spirit needn’t have bothered because the reporter was not about to
give up. “What can I do to get you to grant me an interview?”
“Your mother says that you should take me to dinner.”
Sam was momentarily taken aback—but only momentarily. “Okay,” he
laughed, “but only if she promises not to come with us.”
