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Introducing Sarah Greene, the star of a new supernatural suspense series
from Steven Ramirez called Sarah Greene Mysteries.
Born Sarah Cruz, she is thirty-three and a graduate of UC Santa Barbara. She sells real estate
and flips houses with her business partner and ex-husband Joe Greene in Dos Santos, California.
She has her dad, a sister, Rachel, and a niece, Katy. She also has a cat named Gary,
and she drives a fully restored 1963 Ford Galaxie 500 XL.
The Girl in the Mirror Is Now on Sale
“Absorbing, well-paced, and suspenseful, The Girl in the Mirror is a pitch-perfect supernatural mystery with plenty of twists to keep readers guessing.” —IndieReader
“A well-paced paranormal mystery that delivers chills, laughs, and romance all in one go, and gives the reader a heroine to root for. Ramirez delivers highly readable prose that is both funny and unnerving when it intends to be.” —The BookLife Prize
“A well-paced story, with plenty of action and a great plot filled with twists and turns that keep you hooked.” —Readers’ Favorite
When you look in the mirror and see a different reflection, that’s a bad day.
While renovating an old house with her ex-husband, Sarah Greene finds a mirror that holds the spirit of a dead girl. As she learns more about the people who built Casa Abrigo—and about their demon-worshiping son—Sarah comes to believe the girl did not die a natural death, and she sets out to discover the truth. But prying into someone’s sketchy past can be risky, especially when it awakens dangerous dark forces.
Sarah Greene has been communicating with ghosts since her best friend died when they were both fifteen. At thirty-three, she still doesn’t know why God gave her this “gift,” but with each new paranormal mystery, she feels she has no choice but to investigate, even when the underlying supernatural forces threaten to harm her.
Chapter One Teaser
It was the screaming that woke Sarah Greene. Her screaming. Sitting up, she tried calming her jackhammering heart by using a breathing technique she’d learned from a psychologist years ago. A slow, steady breath through the nose… Hold for three seconds… Purse the lips and exhale slowly… Relax and repeat. That always helped, even though she’d felt Dr. Bates had been a condescending bitch. There’s no such things as ghosts, she had said through impossibly huge black designer frames and thin, pale lips that reminded Sarah of a Muppet. Did Muppets have lips?
Her bedroom was dark except for the glow from the colorful guardian angel night-light she’d had since she was a kid. The only reason she still used it was in case she had to get up in the middle of the night to pee. Or that’s what she told herself. Maybe the real reason was that her mother had bought it for her when Sarah was suffering from night terrors. What time was it? She switched on a light and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Just after midnight. She’d only been asleep, what, forty-five minutes?
“Gary?” she said.
She heard a thump from somewhere far off. Then, the familiar rapid padding noise as her sleek, gray tabby with the broken black stripes and cool green eyes bounded into the room. The cat leaped onto the antique iron double bed and maowed. She brought him close. That always made his eyes squishy, while magically pull-starting the purr machine.
“That was a bad one, Gary.”
Realizing it would be hours before she could get to sleep again, she set the cat aside and threw back the sheet and duvet. She sat there, observing the goosebumps on the tan, muscular legs she’d developed running five miles a day. She didn’t recall why but she’d decided to sleep in the oversize Knicks jersey Joe had given her when they were first married. The man was a New Yorker through and through. Had she been thinking about her ex-husband again?
“Goosebumps aren’t sexy,” she said, lifting a bare leg and modeling it for the indifferent feline.
She talked to Gary a lot, she noticed. Pathetic when you stopped to think about it. But he seemed to listen. Sometimes. Eventually, though, he got bored and hopped off the bed, looking for something better—like a game of Duck, Duck, Goose.
Sarah remained on the bed, waiting for the inevitable after-images she knew would follow. That’s the thing about nightmares. They’re never over until the sun comes up.
And she’d been having this particular one—or variations of it—since she was fifteen. That was when her best friend Alyssa died in a car crash. Exactly one week later, she appeared in Sarah’s room. Sarah remembered she hadn’t been scared. Instead, she cried. A few nights later, she had The Nightmare for the first time.
Now years later, she felt the familiar tingling dread—a cloud-like gloom gathering behind her eyes. Then, a parade of stilted pictures appear like something out of a demented slideshow organized by evil clowns with French accents who liked smoking filterless cigarettes. A flash grenade of white-hot light sent her hurtling into a roiling vortex of familiar images.
She was standing in a place she didn’t recognize, surrounded by dark, smooth walls. Though she was alone, she could feel a presence—something malevolent. Now, a whisper of wailing voices.
A dark, reddish light glimmered behind the walls, and she could see something moving. People. They were naked, their eyes filled with terror. She turned in a complete circle and saw that they were all around her. She could hear a deafening scraping noise as the walls began moving in on her. Thousands of hands tried to grab her. She opened her mouth to scream.
Coming out of it, Sarah could feel herself getting anxious again and decided to take another calming breath. Eventually, she pulled on a pair of jeans and made her way to the kitchen where she found the cat playing with a plastic bottle cap that had somehow missed the trash.
Now what? Coffee? No, she’d never get back to sleep. A drink? Hmm. She had a bottle of Talisker 25 Year Scotch Joe had given her on her thirtieth birthday. Pretty pricey for a guy who was famous for replenishing his underwear drawer once every decade, and only if Penneys was having a sale. Okay, maybe a quick one. That stuff needed to last until she turned forty, which was seven years away. Shit, forty…