The Perfect Fraud by Ellen LaCorte
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 1.9 Mb
The Perfect Fraud : In this propulsive debut thriller, two women with deep secrets are thrown together by an unexpected meeting that plunges both their lives into chaos. But it’s a sick little girl whose fate hangs in the balance.
Motherhood is tough. But then, so is daughterhood. When we first meet Claire, she’s living in Sedona, Arizona with her boyfriend Cal and ducking calls from her mother. Her mom is a world class psychic on the East Coast and Claire doesn’t want her to discover the truth. Claire works in the family business and calls herself a psychic, but she doesn’t really have “the gift” and hasn’t for a long time. She’s a fraud.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, Rena, a young mother, has family issues of her own. She’s divorced and her four-year-old daughter, Stephanie, suffers from mysterious, seemingly incurable stomach problems. No matter how many specialists Rena drags her to, no matter how many mommy-blog posts she makes about her child’s health issues, trying to get help and support from her online community, Stephanie only gets sicker.
When Claire and Rena meet by chance on an airplane, their carefully constructed lives begin to explode. Can these two women help each other and can they help Stephanie before it’s too late?
“Three days a week I read tarot and provide “psychic guidance” at Mystical Haven, the seventh or eighth—I’ve lost count—in a string of employers with names like Sandi’s Spirit Spot, the Soul Center, and Psychic Circle. Before we moved to Sedona, Arizona, I worked at Tea and See, a store on Central Avenue in Phoenix, which specialized in leaf reading but was actually a front for the owner’s thriving drug business featuring a whole different kind of leaves.
“I’ve pressed ‘decline’ six times, but she keeps calling back.”
“Good. Do it again.”
“Maybe it’s important,” Cal nudges.
“Press. ‘Decline.’ Please.”
Since my mother keeps trying, I assume she’s in one of her revved moods, and I refuse to spend what will be over an hour on the phone listening to her tell me about a vision she had where I was saved from quicksand by a fox or a hedgehog, she couldn’t tell which, or to have her ask whether I’d read the article on “The Restorative Properties of Slippery Elm,” which arrived in our mailbox earlier this week. She’d highlighted a paragraph—in neon purple—about “languid digestion.” This was after I’d complained about a bellyache, although I was fairly certain my distress was from a spicy chicken enchilada and twice that in margaritas, details I’d neglected to mention.”