The Discovery

Title Page

Table of Contents

...

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Epigraph

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

Epilogue

Disclaimer

Sources

G
RAPHIA

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Boston New York 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Marley Gibson

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Graphia,
an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

Graphia and the Graphia logo are trademarks of
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,
write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhbooks.com

The text of this book is set in Bembo.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gibson, Marley
The discovery / by Marley Gibson.
p. cm.—(Ghost huntress)
Summary: While awaiting DNA test results that could determine the identity of her
biological father, high-school senior Kendall Moorehead and her friends use their psychic
abilities against an evil, Civil War-era doll said to have been made by a voodoo priestess.
[1. Psychic ability—Fiction. 2. Ghosts—Fiction. 3. Dolls—Fiction. 4. Voodoo—Fiction.
5. Identity—Fiction. 6. Georgia—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G345Dis 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010039249

ISBN: 978-0-547-39308-7

Manufactured in the United States of America
DOM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500285630

To all the places where I wrote this book:

1. In the rig ... my wonderful home on wheels
   
2. In Gettysburg, an amazing town filled with history ... and ghosts
   
3. In Champion, Pennsylvania ... no Internet access, but that gave me more time to write
   
4. In Standish, Michigan ... again, no Internet, so a gal's gotta write
   
5. In the car ... as my sweetheart drove us through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and over into Wisconsin and the Dells, where I managed some water-sliding time
   
6. At Rachel Heggaton and Chris Fleming's house ... thanks for the hospitality, the breakfast in bed, and the awesome time at the Buffett concert
   
7. At John and Ann Burns's house ... thanks for letting me take over your dining room table for a couple of weeks. Twenty-five days—phew!
   

And—

To Patrick Burns, for his amazing love and support and for saving my computer as it was trying to die on me. And to the kidlets, William and Alec, for an amazing summer

To Julia Richardson, for giving me
one
more day—after the Fourth of July—to reread and perfect the story. No more deadlines during major holidays! LOL!

To Deidre Knight, for always believing in me and taking care of me

To those who have empowered me through gifting hardships for me to overcome, inadvertently challenging me to be a stronger person and conquer anything

To my family, for their continued support

To ShoulderHill Films, for trying to get Kendall and the gang on the big screen

To all the fans who keep reading the adventures ... hope there'll be more!

To the woman who taught me the love and appreciation of words
and how to use my imagination to create anything;
an English teacher, a world-class musician,
and the role model of a lifetime:
my mother, Elizabeth Ann Marley Harbuck

The boundaries which divide Life from Death
are at best shadowy and vague.
Who shall say where the one ends,
and where the other begins?

—Edgar Allan Poe

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 wibble-tated. 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.