Spellbound Read Online Free PDF

reassurance. In the latter case, they’ve lost a loved one, and they’re hoping for proof that their dearly departed still lives, in some form, somewhere. So 95 percent of the audience is happy to be there. The laughter and excited whispers that night were so contagious, they even made me feel better.
    But part of the audience has been dragged in by a friend or spouse. Glance around and you can see them, slouching in their seats, like sullen children in church, determined not to enjoy themselves, no matter how entertaining the show might be.
    The woman coming down the aisle had that same look on her face. But she was alone, meaning no companion had forced her here. That could mean only one thing. She had been forced. By an assignment.
    Local media? Member of the theater board? Consumer watchdog?
    Any of the above fit. She was in her late twenties. Chanel jacket. Gucci shoes. Prada bag. None of it matched and none of it suited her, the choices of someone who knows labels but not fashion.
    When the woman finally reached her seat, she double-checked the number. Then she noticed Adam sitting in the next seat beside hers, and her scowl evaporated in a smile.
    â€œIs this D-22?” she asked him, though it was clearly engraved on the arm.
    â€œLooks like it,” he said.
    She smiled wider. Then she turned and shrugged off her jacket, shaking her booty just a little too close to Adam’s face.
    â€œIt’s going to be late when we get out of here,” I said. “We should probably grab a hotel room for the night.”
    The woman looked at me, like she was really hoping I was some stranger making conversation with her cute seatmate. Her gaze barely touched me before returning to Adam.
    â€œHave you been to one of these before?” she asked him, smiling. “Or, I should say, have you been dragged to one before?” She leaned over to look at me. “Little sister, I’m guessing?”
    Adam bit back a laugh as I glowered. Physically there was no way we could be mistaken for siblings.
    â€œNo, she isn’t. And I’m the one doing the dragging.” He whispered conspiratorially, “I love this stuff.”
    Her expression fluttered between dismay and denial. Finally, she gave him one last regretful look, and fished a notepad and pen from her Prada bag.
    I took out my cell to text Jaime and warn her there was a reporter in the audience—one who definitely didn’t seem inclined to give a fair assessment. Then the lights dimmed and I swore. If the lights were out, she was backstage and cell-phone free.
    Adam leaned over and whispered, “She can handle it.”
    True. But that didn’t mean I liked seeing it happen. Jaime didn’t deserve that.
    Jaime Vegas was a con artist, like every spiritualist I’d ever met. Unlike the others, though, she actually could talk to the dead. Yet even if an audience member’s father was right at Jaime’s shoulder, telling her what to say, she’d usually make up the message.
    Why? Because that audience member doesn’t want to hear Daddy give her shit for marrying that louse, Bobby, and letting him bulldoze Mommy’s rose garden. She wants to hear that Daddy loves her very much, and he misses her, but he’s happy. So that’s what Jaime tells her. On some level, it’s true—he almost certainly does love her and is happy in the afterlife—but ghosts are still people, wrapped up in petty grievances and concerns.
    The theater went pitch black. Then tiny lights flicked on, earning the inevitable “ooh” from the audience as Jaime’s recorded whisper talked about crossing the veil and reaching out to the other side. It reminded me of when I was fourteen and Elena took me to Phantom of the Opera . Even as I rolled my eyes at the corny dialogue and over-the-top special effects, I had to admit it worked.
    The lights went up and another collective “ooh” snaked down the aisles as