Free 15 Amityville Horrible by Kelley Armstrong Page A

the one who talked about the dead girls?”
    “No,” Gregor said. “That was me.”
    She still looked confused.
    “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re part of the show.”
    I turned and climbed the steps. Gregor held the door for me.
    “Hey, what about him?” Melinda called. “No one told me we could bring a date.”
    She stalked off to speak to someone about that oversight. Gregor stared after her.
    “I do not understand,” he said.
    “Don’t even try. Just work with it.”
     
    …
     
    I won’t mock poor Melinda for not remembering me. I can’t, considering that I’m not even sure I was talking to Melinda. Apparently, we had identical twins in our cast. I’d probably been introduced to them separately and never figured out they were two people. So, yes, I can’t mock Melinda. Or Belinda, as the case may be.
     
    We went inside and chatted with the parapsychology guys. I was supposed to explain their equipment in a few pre-taped clips. I was running through my notes with them when the cast—the regular folks—filed in.
    Becky had stopped by earlier and taken Gregor. He’d be taping the bits about Cotard’s and “throwing to” the victims’ families. Sadly, it was hard to remember this was a charity event at all. I’d taped shout-outs to the victims and families, entreating viewers to make donations, and those would be added in with Gregor’s pieces, but from where we stood, there was no sign of the charity angle. Although, given the nature of the syndrome, I should probably be happy—I shudder to think of how Mike would have incorporated it into the show.
    “All right,” Becky said, walking into the now-crowded parlor. “Jaime? Let’s get you upstairs. We’ll start with the EVP equipment.”
    “What’s she doing?” asked Melinda—or Belinda.
    They wore identical pink sweatsuits and had their blond hair pulled back in ponytails. If they weren’t wearing a half-inch of makeup, I’d have thought they were ready to go jogging. There was no way to tell them apart. If I had to address one, I’d mumble the name.
    “She’ll be taping segments explaining how the equipment works,” Becky said. “We can splice those in at the appropriate times, so the action on camera is otherwise seamless.”
    B/Melinda just stared at her.
    A girl to my left sighed. It was Rory, the token Goth chick, a tiny girl with a shock of blue and black hair, wearing a tight black Poe tee. “Imagine the machine starts blipping because there’s a ghost. Are you going to stop screaming and running away so Jaime can tell us what the machine does?”
    “You mean she gets extra screen time?” the other twin squawked.
    “Um, yeah. ’Cause she’s the star.”
    “What?” Wade, the token jock, woke up from a standing nap. “Who’s the star?”
    “Why can’t we do it?” the twins asked.
    “Can either of you even spell EVP?”
    “Why do we need to spell it? We can just say it.”
    Cameron, the token geek, snickered.
    “Maybe we should get one of the cast to help me,” I said. “That way I’m explaining to a person, not the camera.” I turned to Rory. “You know what an EVP is, I take it?”
    “Electronic Voice Phenomena. It occurs when white noise, such as static or interference, sounds like a voice. Para-psychologists study the possibility that it’s the spirit world trying to communicate.”
    “Show-off,” B/Melinda muttered.
    Becky waved for us both to come along. When we reached the foot of the stairs, Rory said, “We should invite one of the guys, too, so it doesn’t look as if only the girls need explanations. I’d suggest Ricardo. He’s very pretty. And he barely knows any English, so he won’t say anything dumb.”
    “He doesn’t speak English?” I said.
    “The networks were getting flak for only picking English speakers for reality shows. Apparently, it’s better to have non-English speakers standing there, lost and confused, looking like idiots.”
    “I see.”
    “At least he’s