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Informationen zum Autor Elizabeth Chandler is a pseudonym for Mary Claire Helldorfer. She is the author of the Kissed by an Angel and Dark Secrets series. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland. Klappentext Jenny's sister is murdered at Chase College's theater camp in Wisteria. Police say it was probably a serial killer passing through. Jenny isn't so sure and registers herself anonymously at the camp. There she finds a web of possible suspects who might have had reason to harm her sister. But what's more terrifying are the visions that may be driving Jenny into the killer's arms. Leseprobe Chapter One Jenny? Jenny, are you there? Please pick up the phone, Jen. I have to talk to you. Did you get my e-mail? I don't know what to do. I think I'd better leave Wisteria. Jenny, where are you? You promised you'd visit me. Why haven't you come? I wish you'd pick up the phone. Okay, listen, I have to get back to rehearsal. Call me. Call me soon as you can. I retrieved my sister's message about eleven o'clock that night when I arrived home at our family's New York apartment. I called her immediately, if somewhat reluctantly. Liza was a year ahead of me, but in many ways I was the big sister, always getting her out of her messes -- and she got in quite a few. Thanks to her talent for melodrama, my sister could turn a small misunderstanding in a school cafeteria into tragic opera. Though I figured this was one more overblown event, I stayed up till two A.M., dialing her cell phone repeatedly. Early the next morning I tried again to reach her. Growing uneasy, I decided to tell Mom about the phone message. Before I could, however, the Wisteria police called. Liza had been found murdered. Eleven months later Sid drove me up and down the tiny streets of Wisteria, Maryland. "I don't like it. I don't like it at all," he said. "I think it's a pretty town," I replied, pretending not to understand him. "They sure have enough flowers." "You know what I'm saying, Jenny." Sid was my father's valet and driver. Years of shuttling Dad back and forth between our apartment and the theater, driving Liza to dance and voice lessons and me to gymnastics, had made him part of the family. "Your parents shouldn't have let you come here, that's what I'm saying." "Chase College has a good summer program in high school drama," I pointed out. "You hate drama." "A person can change, Sid," I replied -- not that I had. "You change? You're the steadiest, most normal person in your family." I laughed. "Given my family, that's not saying much." My father, Lee Montgomery, the third generation of an English theater family, does everything with a flair for the dramatic. He reads grocery lists and newspaper ads like Shakespearean verse. When he lifts a glass from our dishwasher to see if it's clean, he looks like Hamlet contemplating Yorick's skull. My mother, the former Tory Summers, a child and teen star who spent six miserable years in California, happily left that career and married the next one, meaning my father. But she is still an effusive theater type -- warm and expressive and not bound by things like facts or reason. In many ways Liza was like Mom, a butterfly person. I have my mother's red hair and my father's physical agility, but I must have inherited some kind of mutated theater gene: I get terrible stage fright. "I don't think it's safe here," Sid went on with his argument. "The murder rate is probably one tenth of one percent of New York's," I observed. "Besides, Sid, Liza's killer has moved north. New Jersey was his last hit. I bet he's waiting for you right now at the Brooklyn Bridge." Sid grunted. I was pretty sure I didn't fool him with my easy way of talking about Liza's murderer. For a while it had helped that her death was the work of a serial killer, for the who...
