The Restorer. Amanda Stevens

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      Praise for the novels of

      AMANDA STEVENS

      “Stevens makes her MIRA debut with this taut, disturbing story.

       The characterizations are vivid, and it’s got a lovely twist in the tail. Not for the squeamish!”

      —RT Book Reviews on The Dollmaker

      “Fast paced and plotted with spectacular precision and guile,

       this is undiluted suspense at its very finest. Nervous readers should read it in full daylight.”

      —RT Book Reviews on The Devil’s Footprints

      “Stevens’ swiftly-moving, intricately plotted story

       has oodles of twists and chills—plus a jaw-dropping shocker of an ending. This is good stuff indeed.”

      —RT Book Reviews on The Whispering Room

      The Restorer

      Amanda Stevens

      CONTENTS

      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

      Chapter Thirty-Five

      Chapter Thirty-Six

      Chapter Thirty-Seven

      Chapter Thirty-Eight

      Chapter Thirty-Nine

      Chapter Forty

      Chapter Forty-One

      Epilogue

      ONE

      I was nine when I saw my first ghost.

      My father and I were raking leaves in the cemetery where he’d worked for years as the caretaker. It was early autumn, not yet cool enough for a sweater, but on that particular afternoon there was a noticeable bite in the air as the sun dipped toward the horizon. A mild breeze carried the scent of wood smoke and pine needles, and as the wind picked up, a flock of black birds took flight from the treetops and glided like a storm cloud across the pale blue sky.

      I put a hand to my eyes as I watched them. When my gaze finally dropped, I saw him in the distance. He stood beneath the drooping branches of a live oak, and the green-gold light that glimmered down through the Spanish moss cast a preternatural glow on the space around him. But he was in shadows, so much so that I wondered for a moment if he was only a mirage.

      As the light faded, he became more defined, and I could even make out his features. He was old, even more ancient than my father, with white hair brushing the collar of his suit coat and eyes that seemed to burn with an inner flame.

      My father was bent to his work and as the rake moved steadily over the graves, he said under his breath, “Don’t look at him.”

      I turned in surprise. “You see him, too?”

      “Yes, I see him. Now get back to work.”

      “But who is he—”

      “I said don’t look at him!”

      His sharp tone stunned me. I could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever raised his voice to me. That he had done so now, without provocation, made me instantly tear up. The one thing I could never abide was my father’s disapproval.

      “Amelia.”

      There was regret in his tone and what I would later come to understand as pity in his blue eyes.

      “I’m sorry I spoke so harshly, but it’s important that you do as I say. You mustn’t look at him,” he said in a softer tone. “Any of them.”

      “Is he a—”

      “Yes.”

      Something cold touched my spine and it was all I could do to keep my gaze trained on the ground.

      “Papa,” I whispered. I had always called him this. I don’t know why I’d latched onto such an old-fashioned moniker, but it suited him. He had always seemed very old to me, even though he was not yet fifty. For as long as I could remember, his face had been heavily lined and weathered, like the cracked mud of a dry creek bed, and his shoulders drooped from years of bending over the graves.

      But despite his poor posture, there was great dignity in his bearing and much kindness in his eyes and in his smile. I loved him with every fiber of my nine-year-old being. He and Mama were my whole world. Or had been, until that moment.

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