She didn’t know how long the car fell, careening to the ground below, nor could she remember closing her eyes. Yet, one moment, everything had gone dark. The next, she opened her eyes to find she’d come to a stop.
Somehow, she’d been thrown from the car, even though her seat belt had been fastened. Lifting her head, she spied the wreckage of her car a few feet away and grimaced. All the windows had shattered, leaving broken glass littering the ground around it. Two of the doors had been crunched inward, another torn off completely. No amount of work could ever hammer out the dents or the roof that had caved inward.
The most important thing was the evidence she’d stored in the backseat. If she could salvage it, the totaled car wouldn’t seem like such a loss. Rising up on her hands and knees, she began crawling toward the wreckage, surprised that felt she no pain. Maybe shock or adrenaline enabled her to function after such a horrific accident.
He had to be responsible for this—the man who’d murdered Isabella. Which made it all the more important that she get to her car and retrieve the evidence. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of not only murdering her sister, but also killing one of the only people who was in a position to seek justice.
Coming closer to the car, she spied something in the front seat. Frowning, she struggled to her feet, trudging forward with heavy steps. Bracing one hand against the battered hood, she lowered her head and peered inside.
She gasped when she came face to face with a woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to her—olive skin, athletic build. Blood soaked one side of her face from the gash in her temple, as well as several shards of glass embedded in her jaw and cheek. A larger fragment jutted from her neck, causing more blood to cascade down her neck and chest. Dark brown hair hung bedraggled around her shoulders—one of which sat at an odd angle, as if it had been torn from the socket. Three of the fingers on her hand had been mangled, twisted and bent as if they’d been snapped from within.
Frowning, she leaned closer, reaching up to touch her own face, and then the woman’s.
This could not be real. Clearly, she’d passed out when the car made impact and she was dreaming. At some point, she would wake up in the hospital, and everything would be all right. She slumped against the car and sank to the ground, tears filling her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice told her that she was deluding herself. Lowering her head, Camila began to sob, feeling more helpless than she had on the day the news of Isabella’s death had been delivered.
Swiping at her eyes, she glanced up and screamed as the apparition of a person appeared in front of her. Once panic and shock had melted away, she realized she knew this person. She rose to her feet and stared into a pair of familiar eyes.
“It can’t be,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself to still the tremors wracking her body.
The woman stood just a few inches shorter than she did, with long, dark hair hanging down her back. She beamed with a white glow, all the color having been drained from her face. An ugly black ring circled her throat, dark veins reaching out from the stain. Her blue-tainted lips parted, moving as if she tried to tell Camila something.
She reached out toward the phantom, her lower lip trembling as she forced herself to speak.
“Izzy?” she croaked, her voice coming out hoarse and strained.
The specter could hear. Nodding, it extended a hand to her.
Glancing back at the wreckage of her car, and then back to Isabella, Camila understood. There was nothing left for her to do.
Without hesitation, she reached out to take the offered hand.
Chapter One
“Who can tell me which event in United States history was referred to by President Franklin D. Roosevelt as ‘a date that will live in infamy’?”
You could have heard a pin drop. Apparently, no one in my history class knew the answer to Ms. Neal’s question.
Well, that wasn’t completely true. I knew the answer, but had been actively not raising my hand all day, despite recalling the answer to just about every question. Twining one of my spiraled curls around one finger, I went on sketching in the margins of my notes with my other hand. In red ink, a small, cartoon version of Iron Man fought against Captain America.
“Anyone?” Mrs. Neal urged.
I could hear the click of her low heels against the floor as she paced back and forth in front of the blackboard, and I felt her eyes scanning the room before landing on me.
Crap.
“Bellamy, you’ve been unusually quiet today. Would you care to take a stab at it?”
Sighing, I set my pen aside and glanced up at the teacher over the frames of my glasses. She stared back at me with a look that clearly said, ‘I’m not letting you off the hook here.’ I cleared my throat, deciding to get it over with.
“He was referring to Pearl Harbor,” I replied.
Ms. Neal nodded. “Very good. While we’re on the subject, why don’t you tell us what date it was, exactly?”
“December 7, 1941,” I rattled off without hesitating.
“Did one of your dad’s little friends tell you that?” someone muttered from behind me.
I didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter because their little joke sent those who had heard it into a fit of snickers. A few whispers spread the joke around, causing more laughs. Rolling my eyes, I kept my gaze focused straight ahead, used to this by now.
Ms. Neal’s gaze swept the room with icy censure. “Is something funny about only one of you knowing the answer to these questions, with only days left before the final exam? Because I don’t
