—Publishers Weekly
“Author Simone St. James has an entrancing voice that mesmerizes from beginning to end . . . filled with fascinating characters and unrivaled suspense in a gothic setting guaranteed to spellbind. This novel is a superb ghost-hunting story, unlike anything I’ve read in years. . . . Easily earns Romance Junkies’ highest rating. Don’t miss it!”
—Romance Junkies
Other Books by Simone St. James
The Haunting of Maddy Clare
An Inquiry into Love and Death
Silence for the Dead
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright ? Simone Seguin, 2015
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REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
St. James, Simone.
The other side of midnight/Simone St. James.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-62134-9
1. Women psychics—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.S726O85 2015
813'.6—dc23 2014031006
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise
Also by Simone St. James
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Author’s Note
Excerpt from LOST AMONG THE LIVING
About the Author
This book is dedicated to
the memory of author
Mary Stewart
(1916–2014)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my editor, Ellen Edwards, for your enthusiasm, dedication to my work, and brilliant ability to make my books better. To the staff at New American Library, including art director Anthony Ramondo and the team who creates my beautiful covers, as well as the editorial, publicity, sales, and design teams, I appreciate everything you do. Thank you.
To my agent, Pam Hopkins, who is my partner in the crazy ups and downs of this business, thank you. Also my friends: Molly, Maureen, Tiffany, Julie, Michelle, you all know what you do for me. My mother, sister, and brother help me every single day. And Adam, who believed from the first that I could do it: There are no words for what you mean to me.
Good mediums are rare.
—Hereward Carrington,
Psychical Phenomena and the War, 1920
CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, 1925
The man who sat before me at seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening was lying.
He’d come with an impeccable reference from a barrister client of mine, and though he was barely thirty-five, the tailoring of his three-piece suit and the glint of his watch chain spoke of success. He wore power easily in his posture and the set of his shoulders, like a man accustomed to it, and yet the problem he set me was not only trifling; it was false.
He dropped his gaze to the table, where my fingers rested over his, and I took the opportunity to study his face undetected. Slender, clean shaven. Almost handsome, but not quite; something about the width of the temples was off, and an absolute seriousness marred his expression, suggesting no sense of humor. His brows were drawn down as though something weighed on him, and his mouth was pulled into a grim line, as if he was thinking of something terrible and new. Whatever his true reason for consulting a psychic, he was not giving it away.
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. We’d been here for an hour already. I’d earned my shillings.
The man looked up at me, uncomfortable in my silence. “I wonder perhaps—”
“Hush,” I said. “You must not interrupt.”
It never occurred to him to obey. “It’s just that—”
“Mr. Baker, if you cannot let me concentrate, I have no hope of finding your sister’s brooch.” I gave him a stern look, the black beads on my dress clacking. I was prolonging things needlessly now, but he’d annoyed me, and I was admittedly peevish. “Please concentrate. Picture the brooch in your head. See it in as much detail as you possibly can. Picture where you last saw it.”