by Lauren Sabel
GENRE: YA Thriller
These are the facts: My name is Callie Sinclair. I am seventeen years old. I live in San Francisco. I love my boyfriend, Charlie. I work for a secret governmental agency. I am a psychic spy. This romantic, action-packed twist on the classic spy novel is perfect for fans of Ally Carter’s Embassy Row series or for any reader who enjoys cinematic writing and stories of romance and intrigue.
At seventeen, Callie is the government’s youngest psychic spy, trained to track dangerous people and weapons in her visions. When another young—and handsome and witty—psychic joins the agency, Callie’s personal and professional lives get messy all at once. If she can’t find a way to change the events she’s seen in her visions, she could lose the people she loves most . . . and her mind. Literally.
Richly painted against the backdrop of San Francisco and Berkeley, Lauren Sabel’s enthralling novel captures the thrill of exploring a unique power in a dangerous world.
It all started when the spoon bent.
I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened, completely out of the blue at Stanford University’s Christmas party, among Mom’s nerdy colleagues and their families. One second I was staring at my reflection in my coffee spoon, waiting for Charlie to stop talking to my mom about college, and the next moment the spoon was bent at a ninety-degree angle in my hand.
“What were you thinking just then?” a voice asked inches from my ear. It was a washed-up looking hippie, with stringy blond hair and the stubble of a beard.
I tucked the spoon into my purse before anyone else could see it. “I was thinking how stirring coffee has just become problematic?”
I glanced over at Charlie and Mom to make sure they hadn’t noticed the bent spoon. They hadn’t. Not that they would, with Mom trying to convince Charlie of the hundred reasons he should stay in San Francisco forever, rather than taking her only child away from her. It struck me that the problem with being an only child is the word only.
“Can you do that again?” the hippie asked, and reached for the spoon in my purse.
I put my hand over my purse. “You do realize that I don’t know you, right?”
He sighed and withdrew his hand. “You’re right. I should spend the next hour explaining how I know about the migraines that paralyze you several times a week, and how, when you’re falling asleep sometimes, you suddenly know things that you shouldn’t know, things that are in other people’s minds.”
I felt my mouth fall open in surprise.
“And then I should explain how you sometimes guess what’s going to happen long before it does,” he continued, “and you see really terrifying things happening to people, and how you’ve tried to hide these things from the people you love, scared they’ll call you a—”
“Freak,” I whispered.
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