but nothing did. No thoughts from the other side came crashing into my mind. So then I imagined the holes disintegrating the wall even more, into a screen. Still, no one else’s thoughts invaded.
“Okay,” I said.
“Can you feel my mind signature?”
The visual in my mind was too clear, and I tried to actually see a wave of something floating through the screen. I wiped my mind clean of the image and made myself feel the screened wall instead, and then feel for Rina’s signature as an energy current, just as I had felt it earlier without realizing it. I detected her signature immediately. She must have sensed me.
“Now focus on it and allow yourself to receive my thoughts.”
I mentally pulled the signature toward me, and her thoughts slowly became defined until I could hear them loud and clear.
“Very good, Alexis.”
Next, she explained how to let go of the thoughts and let the signature float. As I practiced this, I realized her signature was no longer the only one nearby.
“I think someone’s coming,” I said.
Rina smiled and nodded. “Try to focus on the thought, and you will identify the owner.”
“Solomon,” I said as soon as I focused. His low voice rumbled in his head.
“See how his mind signature is different than mine? Become familiar with it.”
Recognizing the difference was easy—Solomon’s mind signature was as dissimilar to Rina’s as I imagined their handwritten signatures would be. With Solomon approaching Rina’s door, I excused myself to leave.
“Wait a moment, dear,” Rina said. “I think you will want to see this.”
Chapter 5
Solomon came through the door, one arm loaded with a stack of newspapers. He handed some to Rina and some to me. The datelines showed yesterday’s date. My breath caught as I read the large front-page headline on the top issue:
A.K. EMERSON BELIEVED DEAD IN BOATING ACCIDENT
Divers Searching for Author’s Body in Aegean Sea
I fell back onto the couch, feeling as though Tristan had flipped me again. I knew this was the plan—to fake the author’s death because I could no longer be A.K. Emerson—but it still caught me by surprise. The words in such large print, official and publicized to the world, drilled the finality of it into my core. She’s really gone. I never enjoyed playing the role of the wildly successful author—the fame and attention wasn’t my thing—so I had actually expected to feel relief at her death. But she was a very real part of me, a very big part of me. She had pulled me through my darkest times. Only my writing and Dorian kept me going through the years without Tristan.
After recovering from the initial shock, I skimmed through the article. It reported my trip to Athens, Greece, with a “Jeffrey Wells,” who they believed to be the father of my son and new husband, and an explosion of the boat we’d rented for pleasure. Such a tragedy to come, the reporter wrote, when we’d just been reunited. A diving team continued searching for our bodies. Of course, they wouldn’t find them, and my guilt surged because they tried so hard. The rest of the article told about my books, their record-breaking sales numbers, and speculation of whether the last book of the vampire series would ever be published.
“What will happen to the last book?” I wondered aloud.
“Once the commotion of her death diminishes, we will announce that she finished it right before her untimely death, so it will be published,” Rina said happily.
“Sales of the whole series will probably break their own records,” Solomon said with a grin. “Art is always more attractive after the creator has died.”
“I currently am planning a funeral,” Rina said, flipping her hand toward her desk. “Some Amadis members in America will masquerade as your family. After the funeral and other formalities, Sophia will contact the publisher.”
The moment felt so surreal, Rina speaking about planning a funeral—my funeral, in some ways—with such a matter-of-fact tone. To her, A.K. Emerson was a vehicle, a means to an end. The author’s life and death marked an accomplishment for the Amadis. For me, though, her death marked the ending of life as I’d always known it—not just the death of the author, but the death of me as a somewhat normal human being.
I flipped through the other newspapers Solomon had brought. They were mostly American, from various cities in the States, although a few hailed from major cities throughout the world. The Associated Press sourced the article, so they were all the same, as