By Laura Jane Cassidy
Jacki King is fifteen and adjusting to her new existence in a small village. She's lacking Dublin yet she's making new neighbors: creative Colin, feisty Emily - and Nick, attractive but unavailable. yet no faster is Jacki settled than the torturous complications and nightmares commence - by way of unusual visions, voices and signs...Jacki refuses to think that anything paranormal is occurring. yet then she discovers the unsolved homicide that happened within the village years ahead of ...
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Extra info for Angel Kiss. Laura Jane Cassidy
I quickly bought some bread and made my escape. Head down, ego deflated, I reached the bottom of our lane. ‘Jacki! ’ Mum called from the caravan door. I struggled to find the rusty red postbox hidden among the overgrown bushes. There was no key for it, so I got a stick to prise the letters out. At first I thought it was empty, but then I felt the stick touch some paper at the very bottom. I couldn’t get it out: it was firmly stuck inside. I was going to just leave it there, but that little voice in your head that speaks to you when you least expect it told me to try harder.
They own the guesthouse on the main street. I met Brigid in the shop and she invited us down. ’ I’d never met any of the Smyths but I’d seen the guesthouse where they lived. It was across from Mary’s shop and painted an insanely bright yellow. ’ said Mum. ‘Ah yeah, Brigid and Pa are lovely people. They have a son your age, Jacki. And I’m good friends with Brigid’s sister, Lydia. She lives there with them too. ’ So they had a son my age, did they? My mood lifted a little bit. I looked down at my jeans and T-shirt and made an excuse to get back to the caravan.
I watched until the large crowd passed and then went back to strumming my guitar. Mum didn’t go to the Cullen house for tea afterwards because she only vaguely knew Jim’s relatives and didn’t want to intrude. I noticed how her eyelids were red when she dozed off later. No doubt she felt just like me: the day’s events had reminded her of my dad’s funeral. He’d died of a brain tumour when I was nine and even after six years I could still recall the small details of that day. The navy woollen tights that made my legs itch, the smell of the white lilies laid out on the coffin and the grip of my mum’s hand on my own small trembling one.