Cavilla Ramirez is an average Peruvian teen, tethered to the 1990s rhythm of clarinet rehearsals, dog-eared Agatha Christie novels, and low-stakes schoolyard mysteries. But when a hit-and-run claims her two best friends, her world implodes—and then restructures itself in a seemingly impossible and unnerving way. Her friends aren't gone. Their ghosts linger, needing her help in solving their murder so that they can cross over. And it's not just them. Ghosts are everywhere, and somehow, she's the only one who can see them.
With a protector in the form of a god-turned-cat, Cavilla becomes a reluctant guide between Peru's realms of the living and the dead. Solving murders and helping the dead find closure becomes her new normal. But every answer she uncovers tugs loose something else: long-buried secrets about her own heritage, secrets her aunt Tia Luz would rather keep six feet under.
And as Cavilla finds out, not all ghosts need guidance. One presence stands apart, watching her… waiting.
And he isn't asking for help. He wants her – or something she has.
Genre: YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Legends, Myths, Fables / General#949 in Teen & Young Adult Magical Realism eBooks
4 star average
I knew something was wrong when dusk wasn’t followed by night. It was happening again; my third time this year. The sun just set over the hills, but the light froze, as if a greedy hand had seized it and squeezed it. The motes of ashen light trickled through the violet clouds into my bedroom window. I passed my hand through the dull sunbeam, my brown color paling as it mingled with the dusk. Even my gold leaf bracelet lost its luster and glow. The hoarse calling of Tia Luz Marina for dinner time quieted and softened until her always angry-sounding voice was nothing but a hush.
That time, I held still and breathed slowly, slitting my eyes until my vision doubled. Focus on the intangible, I coaxed myself. The withered light impregnated every corner, every detail of my messy room. It turned into ghosts the coloring books, the woolen dolls, the half-empty bottles of acrylic paint. When it fell on the spirits of my deceased friends, Niko, and Angelica, sitting on the floor by my bed, it brought them further into focus.
The queer dusk light slipped into my short bathroom hallway and vanished. I stared at that dark entryway, convinced there was something more there. For years, I’d been telling Tia Luz Marina that there were ghosts in the bathroom, but she tossed the notion aside. She said believing in ghosts was a gringa thing. Yet, when I pressed her on ghosts and gods from stories of our Peruvian culture, she shied away.
