Ghostly Justice

Fifteen-year-old Daria Brennan doesn’t want to hear people’s thoughts. She doesn’t want to see ghosts—or talk to dead people. And she definitely doesn’t want to help solve a forty-year old murder.

But Amanda wants revenge, and Daria is the first human contact she’s had since the day she died. Now the killer is after Daria and her friends. Can they solve Amanda’s murder before becoming his next victims?

KUDOS FOR GHOSTLY JUSTICE

Ghostly Justice by Bev Irwin is one of those books that can easily span the bridge between YA and adult fiction. Though the characters are teenagers and still in high school, like Harry Potter and Twilight, the story is fascinating enough to appeal to much broader audiences. Our heroine, Daria, is young, but she’s also spunky, creative, clever, and reluctantly courageous—my favorite kind of gal. And she is most definitely not pleased when she discovers that she is psychic and can talk to ghosts. Well, one ghost, at least...Irwin has added a well-rounded cast of secondary characters to help Daria in her quest, and together with a strong plot, excellent dialogue and a few surprises along the way, they all combine to make this book a very enjoyable read. – Taylor, Reviewer

Ghostly Justice was not quite what I expected when I learned it was YA. Even though the characters are teens, the subject matter—some of it anyway—was very adult. However, Bev Irwin seems to be a talented author and handled the sensitive issues with the same aplomb with which she did the scenes where her teenage characters break into an abandoned house. Daria, our very reluctant heroine, doesn’t want to be special. She especially doesn’t want to talk to dead people or to hear her best friend’s thoughts. She wants to keep clear of her mom’s creepy boyfriend, snag a hot, sexy boyfriend of her own—who doesn’t—and to be left in peace...The other characters in the book are equally well-developed and three-dimensional, the plot has some very nice twists and turns, and Irwin’s writing is superb. – Regan, Reviewer

GHOSTLY JUSTICE

by

BEV IRWIN

A BLACK OPAL BOOKS PUBLICATION

Copyright 2012 by Bev Irwin All Rights Reserved

Cover Art by Jackson Cover Designs

Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-937329-42-6

EXCERPT

I had just discovered I could talk to dead people, now it looked as if I was going to join them...

I stepped closer to the road. My nervousness intensified with each step. This is nuts. You just have to get on the bus and you’ll be fine. Despite my rationalizing, I had a ridiculous urge to turn and run. But where would I go?

The bus was screeching to a stop. I stepped closer to the road. The group moved with me. I felt the press of bodies, felt the rush of hot breath on my neck, felt knees and hips knocking into me, all in the rush to get ahead. I wanted to stop and scream. We’re just getting on a bus not the last train.

I inched forward. The eerie feeling became overpowering. I could feel my heart racing. The smell of gasoline and sweating bodies surrounded me, suffocating me. Someone was right behind me, pressing into me.

As if played out in slow motion, slide by slide, I felt myself falling, down, down, toppling toward the black asphalt. I saw the canary yellow of the bus’s huge metal fender, the shining stainless steel grille, the two massive black tires, all making a beeline right for me.

My arms flew out spread-eagled in front of me. My legs crumbled. I gasped for air I couldn’t get. My heart raced like a runaway train. I hit hard, hard and fast, landing in a limp jumble of limbs. I heard the screech of tires, smelled the burning rubber, and inhaled the foul scent of exhaust. Dread covered me like a heavy carpet as I waited for the impact, the pain, the blood.

The bus’s shadow loomed over me, blocking out the light. I groped in the darkness, struggling to get away. My heart stopped, my breathing paused—everything on hold while I waited for the crushing impact of the bus.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the memory of my parents, Robert Hugh Wallace and Edna Lena Sadler for all their love and support. Whenever I go, your spirits are with me.

And to my children, Sean, Julie, and Amanda who stood by me when things were tough. With her wit and sense of humor, the Amanda in this book does bear a slight resemblance to my daughter, Amanda.

PROLOGUE

AMANDA

After all these years, I could finally feel something. It was as if a jolt of electricity surged through me, and my heart almost began to beat again.

At first, I didn’t know what caused it. I only knew an undeniable force drew me to my bedroom window. With each step, the tingle of fingernails tracking down my spine increased. The thought passed through me, maybe I should be afraid. But really, what was there to be afraid of? It couldn’t get worse. What’s worse than being dead?

I floated toward the window. Two girls were walking in front of the house. They looked about my age, maybe younger – fifteen, sixteen. I was drawn to the one with the dark curly hair. Her friend called her Daria. I reached out my hand, called her name. She looked up at the window. She sensed me. I knew it. I saw her shudder, but she kept walking.

I watched until they turned the corner at Colburn Street. Then the energy vanished and a profound sadness filled me. Even playing the piano held no joy that day.

I have to talk to her. But how?

I gave up trying to contact the living years ago. It became so tiresome—appearing in front of them, touching them, talking to them, yet never being noticed.

Until now.

Every day, I watch for her. Every day, I try to make contact. Every day I plead for her to look up at my window again. Two weeks have passed now. And every day, she hurries past; her gaze focused on the street ahead.

I must talk to her.

Daria is the first person I’ve been able to communicate with since the day I was murdered.

CHAPTER 1

DARIA

A gorgeous September day and I felt like I’d stepped under an air conditioner cranked to maximum.

I wished Mom hadn’t started on me again. I would have stayed home longer instead of storming out of the house. Not only did I skip out on breakfast, but now I had to wait for Tracy. Mom had been drinking last night and blamed me for the house being so messy. At least she hadn’t accused me of finishing off her bottle of wine. I’d have to clean up the dump when I got home from school. Anything to keep her on an even keel.

A blast of cool air swirled around me. It happened every time I walked down this street. Where is it coming from? Not a single leaf on any of the trees on Colburn Street even so much as fluttered. I studied every house on the block. My gaze paused at a large red brick home set fifty feet back from the street—the old Morrison house.

Overgrown cedars and a five-foot high wooden fence enclosed it on three sides. At the front, a spear-topped wrought iron fence bordered the sidewalk. It reminded me of a southern mansion from some gothic romance novel—dreary, grim, forbidding. I tried to look away, but my head refused to turn.

Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley, again. The first line of one of my favorite books, Rebecca, flashed into my mind. The book had triggered my obsession with architecture. With its turret rooms, lattice windows—overgrown ivy—the Morrison house could pass for a small version of Manderley, secretive and silent, neglected and overgrown.

Another chill. It enveloped me like a shroud. My chest tightened as if slender, frozen fingers reached out for me. A shudder ran down my spine and I forced my gaze away. Like Rebecca, I could swear the house was not an empty shell but lived and breathed and was watching me. Hurry up, Tracy. Guess I should’ve agreed to meet her somewhere else.

Goose bumps covered my arms, but I refused to pull the jacket out of my backpack. The chill would vanish once I reached the end of the block. At least it had every day for the past two weeks. The bumps spread up my arm as another chilly blast hit me. Tracy Peterson, my best friend really liked to go this way. It was shorter. But I was beginning to think I should find another route to school.

I marched backwards until I could see around the corner. The street was empty but at least I felt warmer. I looked back down the street. I wish Tracy would get here. That house is creeping me out. I scuffed at a crack in the sidewalk.

Hey, Daria. Tracy jogged down the block, her long legs making quick work of the distance between us.

I spot-danced on the sidewalk until she caught up. Another blast of cool air. I shivered again. I glanced back at the Morrison house. I couldn’t shake the feeling it was watching us. It was as if something inhabited those faded brick walls, drawing me in like a fish caught on a lure.

It’s just an old house—nothing wrong with it that a fresh coat of paint and some attention from a handyman couldn’t fix. But that didn’t stop my imagination from racing off on bizarre tangents. I let out a long sigh when Tracy caught up.

Sorry. Mom made me eat breakfast. She’s on one of her nutrition kicks.

I rolled my eyes. So we eat healthy for the next month?

Yeah, carrot sticks and apple slices. She laughed. I’ll bring the good stuff, you bring the junk food.

Deal. I grinned. But my grin was short-lived. Another blast of cold air hit me as we reached the first wrought-iron fencepost of the Morrison house.

Are you ready for The Plonzky Quiz? Tracy asked.

I ignored the goose bumps spreading up my arms and kept my feet moving forward. Him and his pop quizzes. We just started school two weeks ago. Couldn’t he give us time to settle in? I grimaced. I studied for two hours.

Me, too, but I’m totally blanking.

Yeah right. I shook my head. When did you ever see anything on your report card less than ninety?

She pouted for half a second. You’re no slacker.

Yeah. I rolled my eyes. But my report cards get a few different numbers.

Something caught my attention—a movement in one of the upper rooms of the Morrison house. Shading my eyes from the sun’s glare, I stared at the arched window in the left turret room. The blur of a face?

I focused on the window. Was that someone’s head and shoulders? It looked like a woman with long hair. It couldn’t be. The house was empty.

A breeze whooshed around me, bringing with it the scent of lilacs. Where was that coming from? Lilacs bloomed in June not September. I glanced at the ten-foot high lilac bush beside the house. Growing wild, its leaves were green and full, but the blossoms had faded long ago and lay brown and withering on their sterile, broken stems. Coldness surrounded me with a vengeance, its tiny fingers tickling up and down my spine. I looked at Tracy, then back at the window. A now-empty window.

Daria, you okay? You’re white as a ghost.

Probably cause I just saw one.

A ghost? Now who’s being the drama queen.

I laughed nervously. Ghosts weren’t real. I turned my back on the turret window, turned my back on the house, and tried to turn my back on the strange vibes radiating from it. That house, it’s supposed to be empty, isn’t it?

For a couple of months now. The old lady broke her hip. She’s in the hospital.

Turning sideways, I peeked at the second floor window. I thought I saw something up there. I pointed a trembling finger. At that window.

Tracy stopped walking and stared at the upper story. Which one?

To the far left. The turret window on the second floor.

I don’t see anything.

I shrugged. I don’t either, now.

Maybe it was the sun hitting the glass.

Sure. I paused, afraid to ask. Do you smell lilacs?

Tracy’s eyebrows rose. Lilacs don’t bloom in September.

I turned away from the house. Let’s get out of here.

When I reached the end of the property, I stole one last look. The window remained empty, yet the feeling of being watched remained.

My imagination is running wild. I still smell lilacs. And isn’t that a piano playing? It sounded like Gram’s favorite song, Que Sera, Sera. I gave my head a shake. Just keep walking.

Daria. A female voice whispered.

My head jerked as my gaze shot to Tracy. She’d better not be playing tricks on me. But it hadn’t been her voice. Besides she was busy digging gum out of her backpack.

This is crazy. Shifting my own backpack, I walked faster but it wasn’t until I passed the last black iron fence post that I felt warm again. The scent of lilacs faded but the sounds of Que Sera, Sera stayed with me.

Did I see a ghost? No. Ghosts aren’t real.

Come on. I started running.

What’s with you? Tracy jogged beside me.

I feel like running. I threw it out as a challenge. I’ll beat you to school.

I could never beat those long legs of hers, but hopefully, it would keep my mind off the image in the window and the song replaying in my head. But no matter how fast my feet moved, I couldn’t shake the feeling something bizarre was happening—something totally beyond my control.

CHAPTER 2

By the time we reached Emerson High, I was gasping for breath and I’d almost forgotten my encounter. I grinned at Tracy as I plopped onto the cement stairs. I’ll never beat you.

Tracy stuck out one long, lean, tanned leg. You need a growth spurt like I had over the summer.

I wrinkled my nose. No tall genes.

Come on. Tracy dragged me off the step. Let’s get inside before the bell rings.

Arm in arm, we headed up the stairs and pushed through the double doors.

I wished we were back at our old school—small, cozy, friendly. Not like this cold, stark structure. The faded yellow bricks looked sedate and well maintained. Inside was another story—rows of dented, scarred, peeling lockers lined the walls. The paint above them faded, as if someone hadn’t had a ladder tall enough to reach. Our sneakers squeaked on the shiny tile floor as we weaved through the other students, some rushing, some wandering aimlessly. The din of their voices rose as the clang of the final bell loomed over them. We had to duck out of the way of an airborne football and then dodge away from the person scurrying to catch it.

Bryce Matthews, a smoking hot football player, cradled the ball in one large hand and shoved a hank of blond hair out of his eyes with the other. He had big blue eyes, the type that looked right into your soul, and right now they were doing just that. Then darting back to his team mates, he shot us a flash of pearly whites and a, Sorry, ladies.

I stole a sideways glance at Tracy. Her cheeks were flushed, and her gaze glued to the retreating tight ass, or was that tight end. I kept walking. Don’t even think about him, Tracy. He’s out of our league.

Her shoulders sagged several inches. I know.

But something was niggling at me. Something about the way he’d looked at us, at her. My imagination was going wild again. Was he interested in her?

Then Tracy nudged me. You’re coming to Jay’s party, right?

I shifted my backpack.

I can’t go alone, she said when I didn’t respond. ‘And Bryce might be there.’

What’s going on? I rubbed at the goose bumps spreading up my arm. She hadn’t said his name, so how did I know she was thinking about him. Other than he’d almost run us over.

But things had been happening lately—things I couldn’t explain. Suddenly, I would know what people were thinking, or just know some stupid fact, and today—thinking I saw a ghost. It scared me. It might be cool if it would help me ace a test, or know what Mom was thinking so I could avoid ticking her off. That might be worthwhile.

Please come.

You want to go cause Bryce might be there.

Tracy raised her eyebrows. Why do you think that?

I don’t know. It just popped into my head.

Well, you’re wrong. she protested, but the flush in her cheeks wasn’t from our race to school.

Then a picture of Bryce’s blue eyes, his blond hair, and his jogging rear end came to me. But it wasn’t in my mind. I peered at Tracy. From the glitter in her eyes, I knew the image came from her. He might be gorgeous with his winning smile and designer jeans but he didn’t do it for me.

Princess Serena’s going. I fluttered my eyelashes. She’s got a thing for Bryce. And you know her. She gets what she wants.

So, it’s not a rumor?