Ghost Huntress Book 5: The Discovery by Marley GibsonGhost Huntress Book 5: The Discovery by Marley Gibson

Ghost Huntress Book 5: The Discovery

byMarley Gibson

Paperback | May 2, 2011

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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.&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp 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. Paperback Original
While researching for this series, Marley Gibson discovered her own inner ghost huntress. Now, besides writing, she travels across the county, participating in ghost hunts and talking on the subject. She currently has no home address. Instead, she travels around in an RV with her significant other, Patrick Burns, host of TruTV's Haun...
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Title:Ghost Huntress Book 5: The DiscoveryFormat:PaperbackDimensions:264 pages, 8.25 × 5.5 × 0.74 inPublished:May 2, 2011Publisher:Houghton Mifflin HarcourtLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0547393083

ISBN - 13:9780547393087

Appropriate for ages: 12

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  Chapter One I’m about to walk into a stranger’s place of business, introducemyself, and ask the million-dollar question of my life: Doyou know who my father is? How freakin’ messed up is that? I take a deep breath and slowly let out the pent-up airthrough my parted lips, allowing my lungs to stretch and contractlike a taut rubber band. Maybe that’s the tightness I’mfeeling in my chest. Yeah, right . . . couldn’t be the fact thatI’m in St. Louis in search of someone who might know whatman contributed the DNA that eventually became KendallMoorehead. Mom—my adopted mom, Sarah Moorehead—reachesover 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 forthand totally chicken out on this expedition. Stealing a look inthe visor mirror, I check for mascara flakes or food in my teethfrom 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 therental-car keys in her palm. I climb out and listen as the automaticlocks click shut. I squint into the Saturday-afternoon sunshine and glance atthe gold-trimmed glass sign in front of the quaint art galleryon Twelfth Street here in downtown St. Louis. It reads andreacaminiti studio. See, here’s the current sitch: I just got back from myEnlightened Youth Retreat in California, where I met my newboyfriend, Patrick Lynn (who’s psychic just like me), and I toldthe parentals about the vision I had about the person who mayor may not be my biological father. My bestie, Celia Nichols,dug up information on the name that I saw in my vision: AndyCaminiti. Actually, the name was Andi Caminiti. So, either myreal dad had a sex change (eww!) or I’m about to meet a memberof his immediate family. My psychic awareness tells me it’s the latter. “Let’s go, Kendall,” Mom says. She leads the way across thesidewalk and through the double-glass doors of the art gallery. My nostrils pick up the smell of turpentine, oil paint, andscented candles. Canvases adorn the left wall, laser whips ofsplashed colors in abstract patterns. To the right are more traditionalartsy pieces of rolling hills, sunsets, beaches, and landscapesdone in charcoal and watercolors. A spiral staircase inthe middle leads upward to a wide-open loft area that I can seeis full of black-and-white photographs of people. Close-ups ofeyes, mouths, arms, and . . . is that a picture of a bellybutton?Weird . . . yet beautifully shot. For a moment, I consider this woman, Andi Caminiti, whois quite well known in the art community of St. Louis, Missouri,and I wonder how in the world I could possibly be related tosuch a talented person. I can barely draw stick figures. A young girl with tight curls and fashionable black glassesgreets 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 wehave an appointment.” Liza adjusts her glasses on her plump face. “You must beMrs. Moorehead. Andi will be right down to see you. Have aseat and I’ll get you some bottled water while you wait.” We smile and move behind Liza over to an area where twowhite-leather couches sit facing each other. When I camehome from California and told Mom and Dad all about mypsychic visions and the connection to the name in St. Louis,my ’rents didn’t hesitate to go online and book two tickets outhere to St. Louis for this Saturday morning. Mom called aheadto the gallery on the pretext of wanting to purchase some ofthe 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 quicklydouse 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 thepolice and have them put us in the loony bin? Do we even stillhave loony bins in this country? These thoughts—who needsthem? My BlackBerry vibrates in my pocket, and I draw it out. Patrickis 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 fourstates apart. The tapping of three-inch heels on the wooden spiral staircasecauses me to jerk my head up. I see her legs first. Long andlean, like a runner. A flowy black skirt then comes into viewfollowed by a loose-fitting black chiffon top. From the back,the woman is tall and thin with jet-black hair. As she turns, herivory face is highlighted by bright red lipstick and lush blacklashes surrounding her . . . hazel eyes. Wow—they’re sort of thesame color as mine. “Sarah?” she asks as she walks toward us with her righthand extended. “I’m Andi. So nice of you to come all this wayto see my work.” Mom and I both stand and the adults exchange handshakes.I literally stare at the pretty lady in front of me, wonderinghow I’m going to start this convo. My throat becomes as aridas the California desert I flew over on the way home from myretreat. 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 lefteyebrow and I suddenly feel like I’ve been here before. Vuja deof another time. Been here, met her before. I don’t know whymy psychic senses pick this exact moment to get all wibbletated.New word Patrick taught me; he picked it up from kidsat his previous school, in Tampa. Meaning “distorted.” And Ithink that totally defines my life these days. Eyes that mirror my own turn to me, and Mom makes theintroduction. “This is my daughter Kendall. Thank you for taking thetime to meet us.” “Pleased to meet you both,” Andi says. My hand slides into Andi’s delicate one and I suddenly seeflashes of her as a child. Long black hair gathered in a ponytailthat’s being pulled by a nearly identical twin. Only he’s a he.Andy. Andy Caminiti. The name I envisioned. The two childrenare laughing and playing and wrestling over a go-cart. Ipull my hand back, not wanting to invade memories of a familyI may or may not be a part of. Andi takes in my sudden action but smiles. “Have you hada 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.” Shepauses. “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 inother areas.” She stops a moment and I know she’s going to getthis picnic rolling. “Perhaps we can sit somewhere more privateso we can discuss . . . things.” Andi’s bright red smile widens. “Certainly. Come up to myoffice and we can talk about your decorating needs and if youwant something photographic for your space or something ona canvas.” I feel sort of bad that we’re leading this nice lady on, but it’swhat we have to do. After fifteen minutes of touring the upstairs photo galleryand then flipping through Andi’s portfolio in her office, I can’ttake it anymore. The intense stabbing pain over my eyebrow isa reminder of my mission here. “You have very lovely work, Andi,” Mom says. “I think thatblack-and-white photo of the St. Louis arch would look lovelyin—” 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, butthere’s another reason that Mom and I came all this way to talkto you.” She sits back and then laces her fingers together in her lap.“Go ahead.” “You see . . . umm . . . like, I’m adopted. My birth motherwas . . . 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 Faulknerand, perhaps, of your brother, Andy Caminiti. They dated incollege and both disappeared seventeen years ago. Neither hasbeen 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 indexfinger rests between her teeth. “It’s widely known that my twinbrother disappeared many years ago. What exactly do you want,Miss Moorehead?” My brief stint in studying auras and the bit I learned frommy roomie at the retreat, Jessica Spencer, tells me that AndreaCaminiti is six kinds of pissed off at me at this moment. Thevibrant red that radiates off her head tells me of her fear andstrong anxiety. Wisps of black float through the red aura. Fromwhat I learned from Jess, this means hatred, negativity, depression.My heart hurts for the pain I must be causing Andi withthis conversation. I can’t blame her for being greatly irritatedwith me. Some stranger shows up wanting to buy her art, andthen the convo turns to something personal and painful. I too stand. “I just want you to listen. I’ve psychically seenyour brother and Emily in the burning car wreck that tooktheir lives seventeen years ago. I believe that Andy died thatnight, and had it not been for the paramedics that got Emilyout of the car and to the hospital—where my mom was anemergency-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 visionshave brought me to you. I’ve seen your name and I’ve been ledhere to find my family.” The woman isn’t having any of this. It’s at this moment thatI wish I’d opted for the speech-communication class this semesterso I’d know exactly what to say and how to show theproper body language to calm her unease. This is certainly notthe most fluid exchange I’ve ever had. The once friendly and welcoming hazel eyes turn blazinglyhella-bad on me. “Do you know how many psychics havewalked through my door telling me they know where mybrother is or what happened to him?” “No, I just—” “Dozens! Literally dozens of them! They’ve told me everythingfrom Andy’s being a victim of a serial killer to his joiningthe merchant marines and sailing off to Asia to his being involvedin the slave trade. I’ve had psychics tell me his soul wasin my dog, represented in my artwork, and, best of all, living inan old bottle of sand that I have in my house that he and I collectedtogether in Myrtle Beach when we were eleven. Doyou know how many of these psychics’ stories I’ve hung myhat on, only to be vastly disappointed in the end when I stillhave no clue where he is or what happened to him?” She stops her tirade to drink in air, and I take the opportunityto try to bring calm, if that’s even possible. “Yes, ma’am. Itotally understand. I’ve struggled with this whole psychicawakening like you wouldn’t believe. But I’ve been right aboutso many things. And my visions brought me to the fact thatEmily Jane Faulkner was my birth mother. She did date yourbrother 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 outwho 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 cometo terms with my brother’s disappearance. My twin brother.The person I shared a womb with. The person who was theonly sibling I had. The person who was my best friend. I’vebeen down this road before.” Andi’s eyes connect with mineagain and then shift back to Mom. “This is an original act, I’lladmit. 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 doyou want? A piece of the family fortune? You think that comingin here and saying you’re my missing, perhaps dead, brother’slong-lost child will entitle you to some sort of inheritance?” What? “Umm . . . no. What money? Who cares aboutmoney? I just want to know who I am. Anything that mightexplain 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 tounderstand that I’ll do anything for my daughter. Believe me, Idoubted her abilities as well, but she’s the real deal.” Andi crosses her slim arms over her middle. “That’s whatthey all say. I’d be much obliged if you two would just leavenow. I’ll forget this discussion ever took place.” Now tears do threaten, stinging at the back of my eyes. Iknow I’m connected to this woman. It’s so clear; it’s like gazingin a mirror and seeing my face looking back at me. “I don’twant 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 herface. A soft, emotionally choked voice says, “Please show yourselfout. I have work to do.” I stretch my fingers to reach out to Andi, stopping onlyinches away from her. Flashed pictures dance through my headof 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 tosay one last thing. “I’m willing to submit to DNA testing to seeif we’re related. Anything to know who I am and where I camefrom. No strings attached.” The words hang in the air like drying laundry.She scoffs and then extends her hand to indicate the spiralstaircase. Mom tugs on mine and we descend to the main level.Surprisingly enough, Andi follows; the clicking of her heelstaps out her judgment. I stop and turn. “Please?” Our similar hazel eyes lock and I sense a light of hope inthe irises. It’s brief, but it’s there. So I reach into my purse andpull out the index card I’d filled out earlier, in the rental car.The one with my name, address, cell phone number, e-mailaddy, Mom’s cell, and the landline at our house in Radisson. Igive the neatly written information to Andi Caminiti and takeher hand in mine. Her warmth spreads to me, and I feel thatthere’s a chance. “Can we just try?”

Editorial Reviews

Praise for The Awakening:Kendall's witty narrative voice drives this wholesome-with-an-edge tale. Several unsolved mysteries will leave readers eager for the next installment." - Publishers Weekly"