Spellbound Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jaime appeared on the center-aisle catwalk. Her goldenbrown dress shimmered as she walked in heels so high they’d even make me nervous. Her red hair was piled on her head, tendrils curling down. She had on her nonprescription glasses. If they were supposed to make her look less glamorous, they didn’t work. Every guy who’d been dragged along by his wife now perked up, and started thinking maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
    The reporter beside Adam snorted. “Notice they don’t bring the lights up full? At her age, she needs all the shadows she can get.”
    â€œI think she’s hot,” Adam said.
    â€œAnyone can be hot if they can afford to get work done.”
    I leaned over and dropped my gaze to her overinflated breasts. “And anyone who can’t afford to get the work done right, shouldn’t.”
    She scowled at me, then looked at Jaime—who I should point out, has never had plastic surgery—but owes it all to good genes and hard work.
    Jaime launched into her show. It’s typical spiritualism shtick. There’s a ghost who is trying to break through . His name is . . . It starts with an R. Ronald. Roger. No, Robert. I have a Robert. Is someone looking for a Robert? Going once, going twice . . .
    She always had a taker. Let’s face it, what’s the chance that among five hundred people, no one knows a dead guy named Robert? Once Jaime has her mark, she spits out rapid-fire, open-ended guesses and reads her target’s body language until she can say, with certainty, that this is her target’s nephew, Robert, who died in a car accident three years ago.
    After that, Jaime moved onto a couple of specific audience members . . . ones her trusted staff had reported overhearing in the lobby, hoping to contact Aunt Frieda or Cousin Al. Those were easy and satisfied most naysayers. Then she moved back to the guesswork.
    â€œIt’s a woman this time,” Jaime said. “I’m not getting a name. She’s having trouble communicating. I think it might be Joan or Jan or Jane. I can see her, though. She’s average height, dark hair, a few extra pounds”—she stopped, then hurried on—“in all the right places.” The audience tittered.
    The reporter beside me raised her hand, pumping the air, trying to get Jaime’s attention. Plenty of others were waving madly, but Jaime knew where Adam and I were sitting. Seeing our seatmate jumping up and down, she started our way. I caught her gaze and shook my head.
    Jaime acted as if she hadn’t noticed, but when she reached the end of the aisle she stopped suddenly. She glanced over, as if at the ghost, then nodded at the reporter. “She’s says she’s not for you. I’m sorry.”
    Jaime started to turn away, then stopped again. Frowning, she slowly turned. “Are you here hoping to contact someone?”
    â€œI am,” the reporter shot to her feet. “My friend, Jan. She died last year. Cancer.”
    Jaime’s frown grew. “Are you sure? I’m not sensing a Jan.”
    â€œWho are you sensing?”
    â€œNo one. There isn’t anyone who wants to speak to—” She cut herself off. “I mean, no one wants to speak to you right now. I’m sure you have loved ones who do, though.” A sympathetic smile. “Somewhere.”
    The reporter sank into her seat, defeated.
    â€œMy visitor is still here,” Jaime said to the room. “And I thank her for her patience. I will find the person she came for. Perhaps she can help me locate—”
    â€œTell the truth, Jaime.”
    The voice rang out from the middle of the crowd. Beside Adam, the reporter perked up.
    Jaime smiled. “That’s what I’m here for. To spread the truth, that there is life after this, and we are all going—”
    â€œYou know what I mean, Jaime O’Casey.”
    Jaime didn’t react to the use of her real