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  The Delta Girls: Book Five

  Juliet Madison

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Juliet Madison

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition July 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-071-8

  To Dad.

  Thanks for always being there.

  Chapter 1

  People have no idea that I can sense what they’re feeling—their emotions, their fears, even the way their clothes feel against their skin. It’s weird. It’s creepy. But it’s my reality. When I’m in a crowd, I don’t always know which feelings belong to which person, but sometimes, sometimes, my psychic sense of touch pushes aside other people and zeros in on someone in particular. Today, that person just so happened to be onstage for the live television show my mother and sisters and I were watching from the audience.

  One problem: there were four people onstage and I didn’t know who I was zeroing in on.

  All I knew was that one of them was about to suffer a terrible fate.

  I have to do something.

  If I didn’t, someone could get very sick, or even die. But if I did, I’d expose my supernatural ability not only to everyone in the room but also to the thousands watching on television. I could look like a hero, or an idiot, especially if, somehow, I was wrong.

  Think Talia, think!

  Or feel.

  I rubbed my jade ring and I gripped my meditation stone. The Dancing Chef, Darren, plus his two assistants and a special guest chef, danced to the upbeat intro music as the audience clapped. Could it be the Dancing Chef himself? Perhaps he would taste food that had been poisoned? Could the special guest have a severe allergy that Darren was unaware of? I seriously doubted both options, but my mind was still recovering from the recent crisis at Harborside. Anything was possible.

  My chest tightened and sweat moistened my palms. I wanted to breathe faster, harder, larger breaths that sucked in all the air around me. While everyone else in the audience was relaxed and enjoying the show, I wondered how on earth I was going to warn one of the people onstage that they would need medical attention as soon as possible.

  It was happening the same way it had in the vision I’d shared with my four sisters a few days earlier. Savannah said she saw things becoming blurry, Serena heard gasps and someone shouting to call an ambulance, Sasha smelled an array of food, and Tamara tasted the array of food that Sasha had smelled.

  I glanced at my sisters, barring Tamara, who was working behind the scenes of the television show, and saw they were clapping along with everyone else. Hadn’t they remembered the vision and put two and two together—or two and three, more like it? Why was I the only one getting a sense of déjà vu? Maybe it was because the feelings often came first. The subtle, physical sense that something was unfolding—a slight tingling of the palms, a warm flush or a cold shiver, a simmering sensation of wariness bubbling up inside.

  To cope with the disconcerting symptoms, whenever they appeared I would take a deep breath, close my eyes, and, if it was an appropriate time and place, meditate. But meditation wouldn’t save me now.

  Could I discreetly slip out and ask to speak to Tamara backstage? I couldn’t text her; we’d had to leave our phones and electronic equipment outside the studio in special lockers so that no one took photos or made videos during the broadcast.

  Or could I pretend I was the one in need of an ambulance, so someone would call one, and when it arrived, the paramedics could help the person?

  Okay, focus, Talia, focus. Don’t freak out.

  Remember the vision. The details.

  “Whoo! What a workout, thanks guys,” said Darren as the music died down. “I think we’ve burned off enough calories to eat double what we’re making today, who agrees?” He eyed his colleagues.

  “Bring it on,” said one of the assistants. “Eating competition?”

  Oh God, maybe the assistant chokes on the second helping of food!

  Possibilities raced through my mind and competed for attention. But I didn’t know which, if any, would ultimately win.

  The special guest chef, Renaldo something-or-other, smiled and fanned his rosy face with two hands. “That’s more exercise than I do in a week.” He laughed.

  Cold air. Tickling my cheeks. I’d felt that in the vision, and I felt it now, right when he’d done the fanning motion.

  Uh-oh. It was the special guest. It had to be.

  I squirmed in my seat, eyes frantically darting around. And when Darren announced what they were going to make—chocolate coconut raspberry slice—I glanced at my younger sister Sasha, who was seated next to me. Her nose crinkled, and she looked back at me with eyebrows drawn together. “I smelled raspberry and chocolate in that vision we had,” she whispered. “Do you think it means something?”

  My eyes felt like they were about to pop as adrenaline surged through my body. “We have to do something,” I said. “It’s the guest. Something’s going to happen to him.”

  “What’s going on?” my mother asked.

  Now my whole family, everyone except Tamara, looked to me.

  “I think that guy is in danger, some kind of health thing maybe? I can feel it.”

  Mom’s face paled. “Oh, goodness. Okay, right, um…” She glanced around at the audience and fiddled with her necklace. She was thinking the same thing I was—how to warn him while not announcing to the world, “Hey, guess what? I’m psychic! Or psycho! Take your pick.”

  “Okay folks, first step is to blend the base ingredients in the food processor. Renaldo, if you’d be so kind?” Darren gestured to the guest.

  Renaldo picked up a bowl filled with some ingredient—chopped dates, I thought I’d heard him say—but it slipped from his hand and made a loud sound against the table.

  “Whoopsie!” Darren’s hands shot out toward the bowl.

  “Must be the sweaty palms from all that dancing.” Renaldo winked at the audience, then picked up the bowl more carefully and tipped the dates into the food processor.

  I’d felt that too, in the vision. Something slipping from my hands.

  Okay. It was now or never. I couldn’t worry about myself; I had to help him.

  I got up from my seat and awkwardly scooted past everyone seated in my row. ‘Sorry,” I said. “Excuse me,” I mumbled. I faintly heard my mom say, “Honey what are you going to do?” But my mind was focused on only one objective. Getting to a phone. Getting an ambulance. Telling the guest to sit down and take it easy.

  “Miss, please return to your seat.” One of the crew gently touched my arm.

  “I need my phone,” I said.

  “It’ll have to wait till the allocated break time, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “But there’s no time!” My voice became more high-pitched and urgent than I’d planned.

  “Miss, please, return to your seat.”

  “But you don’t understand.” I pinned her with a desperate stare. “Something’s going to happen, to that guy up there.” I pointed to the stage, and her eyes narrowed. “If I could just get my phone, I can call an ambulance without making a scene on camera. Please.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Are you sick? Do you need
assistance?”

  “No, not me. Him!” I pointed again. “I don’t have time to explain. Please let me get my phone.”

  “Miss, if you’re not sick, I must ask you again to please return to your seat.”

  No. No, no, no. Go back to my seat and watch this man gasp for air? Watch his face scrunch up in pain as he clutched his chest?

  “My sister works backstage. I need to speak to her right now. Tamara. Tamara Delcarta.”

  “Miss—”

  “Tamara!” I blurted it out before I could process what I was doing.

  Heads in the audience turned toward me. The people onstage looked my way, though Darren tried to continue doing what he was doing and not disrupt the show. Oh well, maybe they’d throw me out for disruptive behavior, and then I could get to my phone. I’d lose my dignity but gain a solution.

  “Tamara!” I called out. “Can you hear me?”

  Voices muttered, and people frowned, and another crewmember walked up the stairs toward me.

  “Miss, come with me.”

  “No, wait!”

  “You’ll have to stay in our quiet room until the show concludes.”

  “No! At least let me get my phone first.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  “But he’s at risk!” I pointed to the stage and looked directly at Renaldo. “You. Renaldo, is it? I’m sorry. Hi. Do you feel okay?” My voice was urgent and shaky.

  His face creased with confusion, and his hand touched his chest, not in an “I’m in pain” way but in a “you’re talking to me?” way.

  “This might sound weird, but I think you’re going to get sick or have a heart attack or something. I’m sorry! Please sit down. No, lie down. Rest. Do you have medication you can take or something?” Thoughts and words launched themselves from my mind and mouth without concern for the consequences.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Hands grasped my arms and moved me toward the side door.

  “Hang on, team,” said Darren from the stage. “Let her speak.”

  Cameras turned my way, but then Tamara’s face peeked through a gap in the side of the stage, and I saw an opportunity. “Tamara! Can you call an ambulance? It’s him.” I pointed as best as I could with the crewmembers holding my arms. “I felt it in my vision! He’s in danger!”

  Her jaw dropped, and she froze a moment, then nodded her head rapidly and disappeared backstage.

  Oh thank God. She would have access to her phone. She could stop this.

  I heard someone in the audience say, “Crazy girl,” and someone else say, “Is she psychic? I went to a psychic once,” followed by voices saying, “Shh!” and, “Be quiet!”

  “Miss,” said Darren, “what’s your name?” A spotlight shone on me and my skin stung with heat. Oh God. His ratings would skyrocket while my reputation as the reserved, mature, sensible, eldest Delcarta sister would plummet.

  “Talia,” I automatically said, then, distracted, looked at Renaldo again. “Please, take a seat, sir. Rest.”

  He looked confused and uncertain about what to do.

  Darren turned toward Renaldo. “Are you feeling okay, Renaldo?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Apart from being a bit sweaty from the dancing, I feel fine.”

  “Good.” Darren patted the man’s back, then looked back at me. “As you can see, he’s perfectly fine. But Renaldo,” he said, and glanced at his guest, “why don’t we take a seat anyway like the young lady suggested?” He made an ushering motion toward backstage and out came a man with a couple of bar stools. He sat them in front of the preparation table. “Okay, everything’s fine, so how about we get back to business.” He rubbed his hands together, then looked back up at me. “Would the young lady—Talia, was it? Would you like a glass of water?”

  I almost yelled out: “I don’t need any freaking water, I need you to take me seriously and get this man some help, goddammit!”

  But then I’d be the one they’d be calling help for, and not the kind of help that would be to my, or Renaldo’s, advantage.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” I brushed some hair from my face. Sweat dripped down my back.

  Okay, he’s seated. That might be enough for his body to calm down and work through whatever’s wrong. Maybe. And Tamara’s probably calling for help right this instant. That’s all I can do.

  “Would you like to return to your seat or accompany me to the quiet room?” asked the crewmember.

  “Seat. I’ll sit down.” I huffed out a breath.

  She gave me a look that said, “One weird move and I’ll take you outta here.”

  Sasha’s face was as red as her lipstick, and Mom’s hand reached for mine as soon as I sat down. “You did the right thing, love,” she said. “Don’t worry.” She patted my hand.

  The chefs carried on like nothing had happened, mixing ingredients and explaining what they were doing, though Renaldo’s voice seemed different than before, more constrained, and he kept glancing my way. Maybe the poor guy was going to have a heart attack because I’d freaked him out.

  A few minutes passed, and I wondered if I’d gotten this all wrong. I’d made a fool of myself for no reason. I’d be forever known as the crazy girl who disrupted live TV to say she felt something in a vision. Oh man, why didn’t time travel exist? Why couldn’t the Delta Girls be time travellers instead of psychic-sense sisters, so we could go back and change events instead of having to prevent them without knowing if we were right or wrong?

  “Did you hear that?” whispered Serena.

  “What?”

  “A siren. It must be the ambulance.” She eyed the door.

  I couldn’t hear anything, but she was probably right. Great. They would turn up and have to turn back around again once they realized nothing was wrong.

  “It’s stopped now. They’re here,” she said. The walls inside the studio must have been soundproofed, but it didn’t make a difference to Serena.

  I squirmed in my seat. I wanted to go out and speak to them, tell them to wait around, or to insist that Renaldo get off that stage and get checked over.

  The crewmember had her gaze firmly pinned on me, watching my every move.

  And I was watching every move of Renaldo’s.

  And it was a good thing, too, because he fanned his face again. Then his hand shook as he picked up a utensil and dropped it. His face, which had been rosy before, was now pasty and gray.

  I released a quiet gasp.

  “He doesn’t look too good,” said Mom. “Perhaps we should—”

  A loud clatter made us jump. Utensils and cutlery toppled off the table and onto the floor, followed by Renaldo, clutching his chest.

  The audience gasped.

  “Oh my goodness, she was right!” someone said.

  “Quick, get help!” someone called out.

  I stood and scrambled out of my row, and this time the crewmember didn’t grab me. She dashed toward the stage, as did I.

  Darren’s face was frozen in shock, then he pulled himself together and faced the camera. “Sorry folks, we’ll take a break and be back with you when we can.” He gestured for the camera crew to turn off their equipment.

  The assistants alternated between trying to move Renaldo to a better position and glancing up at the crowd, their eyes saying what their mouths wouldn’t—she was right.

  I was right. I wasn’t crazy. I had predicted this.

  “Please let us through.”

  I turned to see a paramedic scurrying down the stairs toward the stage, bag in hand, another paramedic behind him.

  Relief flooded my body. I just hoped it wasn’t too late.

  They attended to Renaldo and asked questions of those around him, since Renaldo was struggling to speak. “It only started a moment ago?” the paramedic asked. “Why did we get called earlier? Does someone else need medical attention?”

  “Just him,” I said, standing near the stage.

  “Yeah, she had some kind of vision,” said a stranger from the audience
.

  The paramedic’s eyes widened, but he turned his focus back to his job. A minute or so later after he finished helping Renaldo onto a gurney, he said, “Well, it’s lucky we got here when we did. A few minutes later and he’d be a lot worse off.” He eyed me briefly as they wheeled the gurney off backstage, a crewmember directing them to the nearest exit.

  Tamara came out onto the stage, then down the side steps. She grasped my arms. “Oh my God,” she said. “Did that really happen?”

  I nodded. “Thank you. I’m so glad you called for help.”

  “I hope he’ll be okay.”

  “Me too.”

  “Okay folks, I’m afraid we’ll have to finish early today,” Darren said to the crowd. “Sorry for the disruption. But as you can see, there are more important matters going on, and I think we should postpone until the next show.”

  Crewmembers spoke and directed people out of the studio. My sisters and mother joined us and we made our way out the doors. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. I felt the searing scrutiny of eyes on me.

  Mom took my elbow and led me toward the exit, but when we got there, a camera was suddenly thrust in my face.

  “Is it true that you knew the man was going to have a heart attack before it happened?” The reporter shoved a microphone toward my mouth.

  My mouth opened and I blinked as a camera took my photo with a flash.

  “Did you foresee this?” the reporter asked.

  “Um, yes,” I replied.

  “Talia,” said Mom in my ear. “You don’t have to say anything.” She gripped my arm and we tried to move past the reporter and camera crew, but another reporter thrust a microphone my way after asking me if I was psychic.

  “Talia, that’s your name, right?”

  I nodded. My head was spinning. I felt like I was in some alternate reality and couldn’t think straight.

  “Please, leave my daughter alone,” said Mom, pushing her hand toward the cameras.

  The reporter faced her. “Did you know your daughter is an apparent psychic?” she asked. “What’s your name?”