Beach Thriller(7)

She paused to assess Holly, removing her sunglasses and squinting as though Holly’s face was familiar. Her gray eyes matched her hair. They were mesmerizing, like looking into moonstones.

It was rare for Holly to be recognized—she was a self-proclaimed D-list celebrity (a quip she often made at book talks that always got a good laugh). Writers, even the famous ones, were generally known for their words, not their appearance.

“You can’t be her,” the woman said, her voice hitched.

Holly suddenly understood. Even though Anna was two years her senior, the sisters had often been mistaken for each other.

It clicked for the woman as soon as it did for Holly. “Oh my god, of course, you’re Holly.”

“Serena?” said Holly, almost at the same time.

The two women shared a quick embrace. Holly was careful not to spill her drink.

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” Serena said with delight. She pointed to Holly’s beverage. “I’m grabbing a coffee, too, but I need to get back to the shop. I left the door unlocked—should be fine in this town, but you never know. Do you have time to sit and catch up?”

Why not? thought Holly. Who better to ask about her ghostly encounter than the local psychic?





Chapter 5

Holly




She hadn’t been inside Serena’s Psychic Studio since she went with her mother for a reading shortly after Anna’s death. Serena was Beauport’s most famous medium; everyone who sought answers from the beyond went to see her, Holly’s mother included.

Holly didn’t actually believe in all that psychic mumbo jumbo. You lived, you died, and then you got sent into the great nothingness. But she wanted to have her coffee away from the annoying busker, who was bad enough to make Tom Petty’s spirit show up with a cease-and-desist order.

The shop was as Holly remembered. It was inviting, with soft light emanating from an assortment of glass lamps, reflecting off colorful crystals, gems, and pendants likely meant to provide protection to the wearer. Tapestries covered the walls, lending additional warmth to the atmosphere. Holly sat on a plush red chair intended for readings, and Serena took the bridge chair opposite her.

Earthy-smelling incense, strangely enticing, relaxed Holly, like a smoky drug. Wooden shelves stocked full of glittering crystals, various occult oddities, including a deck of gilded tarot cards, as well as books about astrology and the esoteric, competed for Holly’s attention. Scattered throughout were statues of Buddha and other deities whom Holly couldn’t identify, let alone worship. She felt like she was floating in a spiritual bath connecting her to other realms, realities visible only to those with special sight. Holly’s special sight was limited to the reading glasses she purchased at the drugstore.

“You look well,” Serena began. “I’ve been following your career success.”

Holly suppressed the urge to blurt out the truth. When it came to publishing, people didn’t want to know about the struggle—the reviewers who crafted cruelty with twisted glee; the large chain bookstores that carried two copies of a recent release, if that, thinking they were doing you a favor; the salespeople who looked at Holly like she was a vandal anytime she offered to sign their paltry stock.

Once, Holly would have given a book talk to an empty room if it weren’t for two people looking for a place to knit and a homeless woman who stumbled in to get warm. After the talk, Holly tried to give the woman some money, but she took off before having the chance.

“Yes, it’s all going quite well—a dream come true.” Holly grimaced inwardly at the lie.

“I’m so glad,” said Serena. “And how’s your mother? Is she here with you?”

Holly felt a sharp stab of grief. She flashed back to the last time she’d seen her mother at the memory care facility.

Her mom looked so fragile; she was thin everywhere, skin clinging to the bone, veins visible. Her hair, coarse and thinning, had been cut short, as though marking how much time she had left. Gone were the blue eyes of her youth, replaced by a milky haze.

Her doctors diagnosed it as pseudodementia, probably caused by depression. According to her MRIs, Holly’s mother shouldn’t have experienced such a significant cognitive decline. The initial symptoms were mild—fading memory, malaise, loss of appetite. As anyone familiar with the unpredictable effects of grief would expect, they appeared shortly after Anna’s death. However, her condition worsened rapidly, resulting in poor recall, insomnia, and grim hallucinations.

The nurses were very attentive. Carol developed a close bond with one caregiver in particular and sometimes seemed to remember her better than her own daughter. The staff treated her mother like family, which made sense because Carol Sinclair had spent much of her career working as a traveling nurse. Sadly, by the time she was under their care, she could barely change a Band-Aid.

Holly had taken her mother’s frail hand in hers.

“Mom, maybe we should sell the beach cottage. We could afford better care for you. You could live with me, and I could hire some help.” Tears had sprung to her eyes. She didn’t want her mother trapped in this gray, depressing room that smelled of bodily fluids mixed with disinfectant.

“Anna is there,” her mother answered in a raspy, tired voice.

“No, Mom … Anna is gone. It’s just me, Holly. Your living daughter.”