I stood in front of the judge’s desk. I could see the top of her head where her hair color was growing out as she looked over the paperwork. I’d dressed up for the occasion. It wasn’t as if it was going to make any difference, but it seemed respectful to make the effort. Now that I was here, I felt nervous, and I had to focus on not picking at the nail polish on my finally grown-out nails.
We’d only lived in Miami a month, but my skin was already a deep tan. I’d gotten used to going from the swampy heat of outdoors into air-conditioned buildings, but it was so cold in the courthouse it felt like there was a layer of frost building up on the skin of my arms.
The judge looked up at me. “It doesn’t make any difference, but do you mind me asking why?”
“It was never right. I just decided it was time I do something about it.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. Benefits of a free country mean we can all change our names if we feel like it.” She winked. “As long as you fill out the paperwork.” She picked up a thick fountain pen from her desk and scribbled her signature on the bottom of the sheet before passing it over to me. “You’ll need this to apply for a new driver’s license and passport.”
I looked down at the page as we walked from her office. With a swipe of her pen I was no longer Candi Thorn. My new name was Cate. I liked that it was similar to my old name, but more classic and still unique since it started with a C. I practiced saying “Hi, my name’s Cate” inside my head. I stood straighter. A Cate was a different person than a Candi. A Cate could do anything she wanted. Cate Skye Thorn.
Mom linked arms with me as the sound of our heels clicking down the hall echoed off the tile floors. “Let me see,” she said. I held out the form, and she smiled. “Looks good. We can hit the DMV on the way home.”
“You sure you don’t mind?” I asked.
She waved off whatever I was about to say. “Good heavens. I was fifteen when I named you. What did I know? After all, look at the guy I picked to have as your dad, for crying out loud. Clearly making long-term decisions wasn’t my gift. No, Cate suits you. A new you deserves a new name.”
“A new me,” I repeated. I liked the sound of that.
Epilogue
Welcome back to Miami Morning. Thanks to Chef Frances for that recipe for the strawberry-blueberry tart. You can bet it will be on my July Fourth menu for sure!
Coming up next, we have the mother-daughter psychic team, Susan and Cate Thorn. Their new show, Psychic Solutions, debuts on this network in the fall. Let’s see if these two can find out what the future holds in store for all of us!
Acknowledgments
I would never get a single word down without a team of people behind me. My friends and family can be counted on to both cheer me on and/or give a kick in the rear as required. Special thanks to: Kelly Charron, Helen Platts-Johnson, and Serena Robar, who all gave early reads. Thanks to Jamie Hillegonds, Joanne Levy, Joelle Anthony, Laura Sullivan, and Lisa Voisin for the extra encouragement. And without a doubt my best publicity is done by my family (special call-out to Mom and Dad), who do their best to get my books in everyone’s hands.
I have constant adoration for my agent, Barbara Poelle, who is a bad influence of the very best kind. I am very grateful to have her in my corner. Thanks also go to Brita Lundberg and the entire team at Irene Goodman.
Working with the team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt has been amazing. Extra thanks go to my editor, Sarah Landis, who makes me a better writer, makes deadlines seem possible, and somehow also makes the entire process enjoyable. Thanks to Ann Dye and Linda Magram in marketing for spreading the word, Lisa DiSarro in library marketing for connecting me to some of my favorite people, the endlessly creative Karen Walsh in publicity, Emily Andrukaitis in managing editorial, editor-in-chief Mary Wilcox, publisher Catherine Onder, Maire Gorman in sales, and Cara Llewellyn in design. And for a cover to die for, hugs and kisses go to Erin Fitzsimmons. For having endless patience, kudos to Ana Deboo, who did the copy edits. For all things foreign, I have relied on Heather Baror-Shapiro, who has been nothing short of amazing.
I learned a lot about how to fake psychic ability from the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry. They do a great conference, and if you’re interested in critical thinking—?this is the group for you.
At home, I rely on my husband, Bob, for everything from making dinner to doing my website. Thank you. And I need to thank my dog, Cairo, and our new puppy, Gimlet, who provide boundless enthusiasm and love. They can also be counted on to bark while I’m on the phone and to dig holes in my yard.
Lastly, a huge thanks to readers, librarians, and bookstore people. My world would be less enjoyable without you.
Chapter One
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I’m not a morning person. Understatement.
My hand couldn’t seem to muster the energy to turn off the alarm. It picked at the covers. The blanket felt wrong. Scratchy. Thin.
This isn’t my bed.
The realization made me uneasy. I must have crashed somewhere else. I hoped I’d remembered to call my mom. I felt a ripple of worry. If not, I was going to be in deep shit for not coming home. She was already mad about . . .
My brain was blank. I couldn’t remember why she was ticked at me. I remembered fighting about it. I’d slammed my door, and Mom threatened if I did that again, she’d take it off the hinges, but the reason why we’d argued was gone.
It felt like the reason was right on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t pin it down. Every time I tried to concentrate, it slipped away.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Most annoying alarm ever. It sounded only half awake, a slow, quiet beeping, just loud enough to make it impossible to ignore. All I wanted was to go back to sleep.
I was exhausted. Even my skin was tired, like I was stretched too thin.
I swallowed and winced at how dry my throat was. I don’t remember partying last night. What the hell did I drink? My stomach did a barrel roll. I made myself concentrate on not throwing up. Simone must have talked me into doing shots. She was the captain of bad decisions. I told myself I wasn’t scared, but it was weird that I couldn’t remember. What if someone had slipped me something? My mom had sent me an article on roofies, and I’d rolled my eyes, thinking she worried about stuff that was never going to happen, but now it didn’t seem so stupid.
Don’t freak out. You’re fine. Just figure out where you are.
I forced my eyes open. They felt gritty, like I’d rolled them in sand before popping them into my skull. It was too bright in the room. It was hard to make anything out clearly. There was a window with the blinds up and bright sunshine blasting in. Like it was afternoon instead of early morning.