The Farsighted Series

Ordinary teens with extraordinary powers



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Farsighted – Book #1

Alex Kosmitoras’s life has never been easy. The only other student who will talk to him is the school bully, his parents are dead broke and insanely overprotective, and… oh yeah, he’s blind.

Just when he thinks he’ll never have a shot at a normal life, an enticing new girl comes to their small Midwest town all the way from India. Simmi is smart, nice, and actually wants to be friends with Alex. Plus she smells like an Almond Joy bar. Sophomore year might not be so bad after all.

Alex is in store for another new arrival—an unexpected and often embarrassing ability to “see” the future. Try as he may, Alex is unable to ignore his visions, especially when they suggest Simmi is in mortal danger.

With the help of the mysterious psychic next door and friends who come bearing gifts of their own, Alex embarks on his journey to change the future.

Get it on Amazon US, Amazon UK, Barnes&Noble, Kobo, Smashwords, or iTunes.

Chapter 1

Our hero is about to embark on a journey. Life as he knows it is quiet, boring, and predictable, but it’s also comforting and familiar. That will soon change.

Today is the last day of summer, but I’m not doing anything even remotely close to fun. I’m just lying here in Mom’s garden, running my hands over the spiky blades of grass—back and forth, back and forth, until my fingertips go numb. Until everything goes numb. I sigh, but no one’s around to hear.

“Alex,” Dad yells from the kitchen window. “Dinner.”

Already? How long have I been out here? I spring up from the ground and the grass springs up with me, one blade at a time—boing, boink, boint. The sounds would be imperceptible to any normal person, but they tickle the insides of my ears. I picture an army of earthworms raising blades of grass as spears in their turf wars, and smile to myself.

Dad opens the back door and calls out to me again. “C’mon, Alex, what’s taking you so long?”

I grab my cane and shuffle over to the house, brushing past him to squeeze inside. The kitchen reeks of fast food restaurants and movie theaters—butter and grease—which means it’s breakfast for dinner. We do this every Sunday night, because Mom goes out to garden club and Dad doesn’t know how to cook anything else. Plus it’s cheap.

Breathing heavily, Dad plunks some food onto both our plates and collapses into his chair. He groans and asks me to pass the butter, or rather the “bud-dah.” Since he grew up in Boston, that accent works itself into his speech every once in a while.

I slide the tub to Dad.

He reaches out and stops it before it glides clear off the table. “What’s this?”

“Uh, the butter. Obviously.”

‘”I know it’s the butter, so don’t get smart. Why’d you give it to me?” His voice rises an octave.

“Because you asked me to.”

“No, I didn’t.” He exhales as if someone’s socked him in the stomach. “Guess you must’ve read my mind.” He chuckles to himself and slides the knife into the butter, then scrapes it across his toast.

Dad and I don’t usually talk to each other unless Mom is around to ask about our days, chatting on, working hard to create those warm and fuzzy family moments we don’t quite get to naturally. Even though Mom has reassured me a million times, I know Dad resents me for being born blind.

I can tell he would much rather have had a son like Brady—the same guy who insists on making my high school experience as difficult as possible. Ugh, Brady. I shiver at the thought of dealing with him tomorrow.

Nothing’s worse than knowing your own father thinks you’re a loser.

Dad and I finish our meal in silence and my mind wanders.

He rises from his chair, breaking apart my thoughts. “Let’s get this table cleared before your mother comes home,” he says, missing the r in cleared.

I stand too, and pick up my plate and glass. Guess I’ll pass on that fifth biscuit.

“Your mother has a surprise for you.”

I smile for Dad’s benefit. My parents are horrible at keeping secrets. Last night, I overheard them talking in their room as Mom bragged about how she’d found some “cute” new shades on Wal-Mart’s clearance rack.

About ten minutes later, the tires of Mom’s van crunch on the gravel in our driveway with lots of little pings and a big cuh-clunk. As usual, she steers directly into the pothole we don’t have the money to repair. Sometimes I wonder if she does it on purpose.

The door creaks open, inviting a floral fragrance into the house. Mom always smells like flowers—today it’s tulips and jasmine. She tiptoes across the floor and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.

When she turns to greet Dad, I wipe at the lingering moistness with my shirt sleeve. I’m getting too old for this kind of thing—been too old for a while now actually—but that doesn’t seem to matter to her.

“How was your day, my little sapling?”

I really wish she would stop calling me that. “Hi, Mom.” I hug her, because it makes her happy.

“Are you excited for tomorrow?”

I snap my fingers, which is how I say “yes” without actually saying it—kind of how most people nod their heads. I’m excited to learn, to have something to do other than lie in the grass, possibly to make a friend. More than likely though, things won’t change. I’ll still be an outcast, all by myself, but at least I’ll know where I stand. No more wondering.

“A sophomore already! I hope I can keep up enough to help you with your homework,” Dad says. He’s acting like a completely different person from just a few minutes ago. He has this way of being nicer to me whenever Mom is around.

It’s all for show, and it pisses me off.

I ignore him and turn toward Mom. “So, Dad told me you’ve got a surprise for me?” I’d rather get this over with before they try too hard to build up the suspense.

“Oh, yes,” she chirps, fluttering over to the other side of the living room. She pulls out the drawer of the small table in the corner, and rustles the unpaid bills inside, then comes back over and places a small bag in my lap.

“Wait,” Dad says as I’m about to reach inside. “Before you open that, I just want to say that I know we haven’t been able to give you as many back-to-school supplies as you need this year. Your backpack is starting to tear and your boots are scuffed….”

I had no idea my boots were scuffed, but now that he’s pointed it out, that’s all I can think about.

“And all of this is my fault,” he continues.

How badly are my boots scuffed? Where? On the heel? On the toe?

Mom clicks her tongue and rubs Dad’s shoulder sympathetically, dragging her fingernails across his thick shirt. The scratching sound draws my attention back to his melodramatic speech.

“I want to make you a promise. As soon as I get a job we’re going to buy all of those things for you. Okay?”

“It’s okay, Dad. I don’t need anything.” Except for you to be nice to me even when Mom isn’t around, and, oh yeah, a friend or two.

“That’s my brave little oak tree,” Mom says, giving me another hug.

I swear, sometimes I think she’s from another planet, or at least another time period. Still, she loves me, even if she’s constantly saying stupid things like that.

When they stop talking, I reach my left hand into the bag and bring out a pair of sunglasses, and methodically run my right hand over them to make out their shape. They’ve got hard plastic frames and cushiony rubber ends where they sit on top of the ears. They’re broad in front; the rim goes in a straight line all the way across about a half an inch above the nosepiece.

These aren’t the normal bookworm glasses. They’re cool guy glasses.

“We thought you deserved a new pair of cool guy glasses since you’re practically sixteen,” Mom says.

Ugh! I hate when she uses the same words as me, and make a mental note never to say, or think, the words “cool guy glasses” again.

“And they’re even your favorite color!” Mom shouts, unable to contain herself.

Then they’re green. I “see” color through my nose, and like green most of all because so many of the best-smelling things are that hue, like grass, leaves, vegetables, and limes. But with green glasses, I’m afraid I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb—a sore green thumb.

I smile and reach out my arms. Both my parents come in for a hug. I whisper a quick prayer for tomorrow and head to bed.


The next morning, my alarm starts yelling at six o’clock. Is it excited or trying to give me a warning? Time to get this over with. Time to see if this year will be any different from all the crappy ones before. I reach over to flip the off switch, and stumble about in a sleepy haze to get ready for the first day of the new school year.

On the way to the bathroom, I stub my toe on some bulky object that’s sitting in the middle of the hallway, not even pushed up against the wall. I kick it to the side—clunk, straight into the wall—and continue to the bathroom. I shouldn’t need my cane to get around my own house. That had to be something of Dad’s.

What, is he actually trying to kill me now?

I turn the shower knob and wait for the water to get warm. It’s taking forever since I’m the first one up today. A low growl escapes my throat; I don’t like waiting. Instead of just standing there, I pace back into the hall to find the object again. Stooping down, I attempt to work out the shape—rectangular, with a handle, made of leather or something leather-like, with little metal clasps. A briefcase, I guess.

But Dad’s a contractor, so why would he need a briefcase? Why now? I flip the clasp, curious to find out what’s inside, but the case doesn’t open. I brush my fingers across the top again, and find a twisty-turny thing on either side—a combination lock. If it’s so important, why’s it lying here in the middle of the hall like a discarded sock?

A wall of steam pushes into my back, calling my attention to the running shower. I return the case to its original position in the middle of the hall and go to wash up for school.

Afterward, I towel off and put on my favorite shirt, which is soft and made of flannel. I wear my favorite pants, too—baggy with big pockets on the sides. As I’m pulling them on, a tickle at my ankles alerts me to the fact that the hems rest two full inches above where they should be.

I groan. I must’ve grown over the summer. How much taller can I get? I’m really tall now, at least a couple of inches over six feet, but we just don’t have the money to keep buying me new clothes every time I gain another inch.

To add the finishing touch to my first-day-of-school look, I slip my new cool guy glasses—er, sunglasses—on over my nose. The lenses are extra thick. Probably, if I wanted, I could sleep in class and no teacher would ever notice, but I’m not like that; I like to learn.

“Honey?” Mom calls from the end of the hallway. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I’m coming! Gimme a minute!”

I fiddle with my boots, trying to stuff my pants into them, so no one at school sees they’re too short. I’m sure this makes me look even more like a teenage Paul Bunyan than usual, but I don’t care. The boots are comfortable and help support my ankles, which is important since I’d prefer to keep my balance and avoid any embarrassing stumbles on the first day of school—or ever for that matter. Anyway, I could probably wear nothing but expensive designer clothes and still be considered a freak.

Before standing, I run my hands over my feet. The right boot has a long narrow indentation across the toe. They are scuffed. Great. I sigh in helpless frustration and pick up my backpack before walking to the kitchen, where Mom is waiting.

She has way too much energy for this early in the day. “Yogurt with berries fresh from the garden,” she says, placing a glass in my hand. “You can eat in the car.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I jab a heaping spoonful into my mouth and finish it in five huge bites. Then I grab my cane from the hook near the front door, loop the cord around my wrist, and follow Mom out to the old family van in the driveway.

As she shifts the rattling vehicle into drive, sadness washes over me. I’m almost sixteen, but it will be a long time, if ever, before I can get around by myself. I’ve heard rumors about a new technology that makes it possible for blind people to drive, but we’ll never be able to afford it. Someday, I’ll make enough on my own to be able to buy whatever I want, including a car. Until then, either my parents or public transportation will remain my designated mode of transport. I just wish we had a bus system in this crappy small town.

Mom drives the twelve minutes to school, talking non-stop about new beginnings and the “carefree happiness of youth.”

When the van stops, I take a deep breath and wrap my fingers around the door handle, ready to find out what’s in store for me this year at Grandon High.

“Hey, Alex?” Mom stops me just as I’m about to step out onto the concrete. I pause and wait. “Have a good day at school.”

“I will.”

“Dad’ll pick you up and bring you to the shop in the afternoon, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Mom.” The longer we draw out this scene, the higher the chances of her kissing me on the head or calling me her “little sapling.” I just can’t risk starting out the year on such an embarrassing note.

I head straight inside the building. Mom always pulls up to the center of the walkway, which means I just have to walk straight to the front door of the school, whereas Dad just parks wherever there is space and leaves me to fend for myself.

As I approach the high school, a bunch of kids chat away about their summers, getting back into the swing of things. They don’t notice me as I slink by and make my way to first hour English.

During the summer, I memorized the location of all of my classes so I wouldn’t embarrass myself by getting lost or arriving after the bell rings.

I enter the classroom and drop my backpack on the floor, then prop my cane between the seat and the desk; that way it’s near at hand and easy to get later. Nobody else is here, not even the teacher. Bored already, I decide to get a drink of water from the fountain. As I’m rounding the corner of the familiar hall, the air gets heavy, like after a rainstorm. The aroma of wet grass and asphalt overpowers my senses. This definitely seems out of place for a high school hallway.

“Hey, Alex, how was it today?” Dad asks, sounding like he’s in a much better mood than usual.

I spin around in shock. What’s he doing here? Mom just dropped me off. Dad should be in bed still, not here at school embarrassing me.

“Dad?” I ask tentatively. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not your daddy, you no-eyed freak!” says Brady Evans, the running-back of the school’s Junior Varsity football team and my biggest enemy.

The air becomes lighter, as if a vacuum cleaner has sucked up all the humidity. The fragrance of sweat and Axe deodorant spray fills my nostrils.

I’m totally confused now. “Brady?”

“No, it’s your daddy. Loser….” Laughter comes from at least six different people, most of them girls.

“Sorry,” I mumble, and head back to English class, forgetting my drink of water. Brady and his entourage follow me in, joking, laughing, reminding me just how much of a misfit I am.

I put my head down on my desk, wishing I was a chameleon so I could become one with the furniture and fade out of view. Being a reptile couldn’t be much worse than having to endure high school.

“Mr. Kosmitoras, could you please come here?” the teacher calls, butchering the pronunciation of my name.

“Um, it’s Caas-me-toe-rh-aas actually.” I get up and walk over to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Brady and his friends are still laughing, and I can only hope they’ve moved onto a new topic.

“Not all of your textbooks for the year have come in yet. We’re starting out using a basic reader, but that hasn’t shipped. So, you’ll have to take good notes.” She plops a pile of thick books into my hands. “Then we’ll be moving on to The Odyssey and finally Romeo and Juliet. I have the first several volumes of The Odyssey for you now, and am storing the rest in my supply closet until you need them. That basic reader should be in by the end of the week, okay?”

“Okay, thanks,” I mutter and head back to my seat.

I begin skimming The Odyssey, flipping through several pages at once, trailing my finger over random little snippets of text. Since no school around here caters specifically to visually-impaired kids, my teachers special-order textbooks in braille for me. Most of the time, the books come in at least six volumes. That’s the only exception I need to get by, really.

Except for a few limitations, I can do anything other kids my age do. I’ve been this way my whole life; I know how to make it work.

Bit by bit, the other students trickle into class. Someone who smells like cherry candy sits down across the room. Then, a series of loud thuds comes from that direction—she must’ve dropped her books.

“Simmi! Simmi, jeez! Don’t make so much noise!” says some boy. He sounds a bit like Brady, but I don’t think it is.

I don’t know anybody named Simmi, so this girl must be a new student. Why’s this boy being so mean to her already? Hope rises inside me. Maybe she’ll be an outcast, too. The two of us could team up.

The bell rings, taking away the cherries. I tune out the teacher as she introduces herself to the class, instead focusing on the strange things that have been happening today. What was in that briefcase in the hall this morning, and why couldn’t I open it? Why did I think Brady Evans was my dad? Why do we have to read Romeo and Juliet this year in English class?

We’re less than five minutes into first period, and my hopes for the new year are already dashed.


Alex Kosmitoras may be blind, but he can still “see” things others can’t.  When his unwanted visions of the future begin to suggest that the girl he likes could be in danger, he has no choice but to take on destiny and demand it reconsider.


Release Dates

1st Edition – October 24, 2011

Extended Edition – March 8, 2012

2nd Edition -November 26, 2012


Formats & ISBNs for Current Edition

eBook – 978-1-62-253194-3, 1-62253-194-9

Paperback – 978-1-62-253195-0, 1-62253-195-7

Hardcover – 978-1-62-253196-7, 1-62253-196-5


Open Heart (Farsighted #2)Open Heart – Book #2

Simmi Shergill’s life is a mess. Her powers of psychic feeling are on the fritz, and Grandon Township’s sudden population boom has brought quite a few unsavory characters to town. She also looks like an over-blown balloon in her size 14 pants, but not even starving herself seems to be helping.

At least she has Alex, the boyfriend who loves her so much he’d do anything for her. Last summer, he even risked his life to protect her from the mysterious boy everyone was convinced wanted to kill her.

Just one problem: she’s not so sure she feels the same way. Is Alex really the man of her dreams? Why can’t she stop fixating on her would-be killer, Dax? Part of her wants to run screaming in the other direction whenever Dax is around, while the other part longs to run into his embrace, no matter whom she’d hurt or what she’d risk.

Simmi’s loyalty is on the line. Whom will she choose—the blind seer who loves her, or the charming telekinetic with “bad idea” written all over him? Emotions run high in the tension-packed book two of the Farsighted series.

Get it on Amazon US, Amazon UK, Barnes&Noble, Kobo, Smashwords, or iTunes.

Chapter 1

It’s amazing how much can change in a year—your location, your friends, your self. The simple life of New Delhi seems far away as I sit outside Alex’s ranch-style house, waiting for him to emerge. I eye myself in the rearview mirror of the shiny new Honda coupe Papa gifted me for my sixteenth birthday. My eyebrows need to be threaded. Badly. And a pimple is emerging in the lower right corner of my chin.

Almost instinctively, I rub an index finger back and forth across my jeans quickly to build up friction. When my fingertip starts to tingle from the warmth, I pull back and press into the beginnings of my blemish—an old wives’ trick from India.

The passenger door jerks open, and I jump in my seat. Alex slides into the car, places his cane beside him, and buckles his seatbelt.

“‘Don’t do that! It startles me.”

“Sorry. Keep forgetting.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

“No, you’re okay. I’m just a little tense lately.” I glance over at him and smile even though he can’t see the reassuring gesture.

His eyes are focused straight ahead and his ear is angled toward me; he always does this, because hearing is his dominant sense. Still, I wish he would look at me—that just once, he could see me.

Alex grins as he so often does when nobody speaks for a while. “Want to go to our spot?” He brings his hand up to knead my shoulder. “It’ll help take the edge off.”

I exhale and try to relax. Clairsentience should have been his gift, not mine. What good is psychic touch if I can never use it to improve my own mood? I close my eyes and pretend a mild electric current emanates from Alex’s firm grip. The sparks are supposed to emit a calming effect—but they’re imaginary, so they don’t.

“Yeah, let’s go to our spot.” I shake him off and transition the car into drive.

It isn’t long before the edge of town comes into sight, and I pull onto the bumpy dirt road leading to our special place. We drive a few minutes to the empty field of grass, and get out of the car.

Alex and I discovered this abandoned farmland several weeks back while trying to find a private place we could go. We weren’t doing anything wrong, but my parents can be a bit nosy and his dad has the ability to read minds.

Sometimes it’s nice to have secrets, even if they don’t mean anything.

Alex gets out of the car and makes his way over to my side. “Wanna go north or south today?”

“Let’s go over near the brook. It’s nice there.” I slip my hand into the crook of his arm, partly because Alex is chivalrous, and partly because I am, too. Whether he needs assistance or not, helping him get around makes me feel good.

We traverse the broad meadow toward the line of pine trees in the distance. The long grass reaches right through my jeans and tickles my ankles.

“Smell that?” Alex asks with a twinkle in his voice. “The goldenrod is starting to bloom. Might be a little early, but that’s them all right.”

The stench of a never ending field of grass overwhelms all else for me. Splotches of color in the field are in short supply, too. “I can’t spot them.” I pout.

“Wait a couple days. You will.” He squeezes my hand a little harder and quickens his pace.

My boyfriend gets so excited about flowers—no real surprise coming from the son of a florist.

After crunching through the grass a few more meters, we find our spot. The stream gurgles down the subtle slope of the hill. The sound relaxes me like nothing else can as of late. Alex tosses his cane to the side and plops onto the ground.

“C’mere.” He pats the grass beside him with a huge smile, and stretches his arms toward me.

No sooner do I drop down beside him than he takes me in his arms, brings his face to mine, and kisses me as if we haven’t seen each other every single day this summer without fail. I pull back and sigh.

“What? What?” He shakes his head and the corners of his mouth fall toward his chin.

“Nothing.” I reach up to remove his sunglasses. “Just feel like talking today, that’s all.”

He doesn’t like when people take his glasses off, says it makes him feel naked, but his eyes remind me of clouds right before a rainstorm—light, gray, soft, full.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking into your eyes.” His cheek is rough under my palm.

“I thought you wanted to talk.” Alex’s eyes shift from side to side and his usual happy pulsing current speeds into a frenzied rush of emotional energy—discomfort. He doesn’t like when people stare.

I slide his glasses back onto his face and pull him close. “I changed my mind.”

The grass cradles us as Alex moves on top of me. We kiss for a while, and he pants melodically, even more excited about this than those darned flowers. Then he attempts to slip his hand under my shirt and onto my belly.

I jolt away from him. “No. I’m not ready.”

“But Simm-mii,” he whines, stretching my name into two over-enunciated syllables.

“But nothing. I said no,” I huff, and fold my arms across my chest.

“Okay, okay, Sorry.” He rests his arm around my shoulders and pulls me tight against his side. “Let’s talk, then.”

“Thank you.”

He pecks the top of my head and we sit together in silence for a moment, listening to the rollicking creek.

“How are things at home?”

He grunts. “Same as always.”

“And with Dax?”

He guffaws—actually guffaws, like a donkey or something. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I put on my sweetest voice. “I’m just curious. Can’t you tell me?”

“Hey, you’ve got your limits—I’ve got mine.”

His anger catches me off-guard. He has a weird relationship with Dax, but I don’t quite understand the tension between them. Weeks have passed since Alex last invited me to his house. He doesn’t want me anywhere near Dax and will do almost anything to keep us apart. Never mind that his dad and Miss Teak and Shapri all seem to trust Dax. He says he never will. Those visions he had of me dying must still haunt him—the same ones that turned out to be fake. The same ones that have turned me into a jumpy mess, always wondering what horror lies around the bend.

His brow furrows, as if his thoughts are racing a million miles a minute.

“I’m sorry,” I say. It seems that all we’ve done today is apologize to each other.

A gentle peck on his cheek puts him at ease, and the crinkles on his forehead disappear into the smoothness of his creamy white skin. I hold his face for a moment, examining the contrast of its color against my hand—caramel and frothed milk.

When neither of us can think of anything to say, we begin making out again. This time I’m sure to remain firmly seated so he doesn’t try to make another wrong move. The kissing is nice, but not blissful or earth-shattering like in the movies. Kissing Alex is just fine, ordinary, comfortable. Makes me wonder if something is wrong with me.

A piercing robotic shriek shakes the air. I yank away from him. My breath beats out of me like butterflies, fast and light. Although it takes a great deal of focus, I will myself to hold in the tremors. Alex can’t know how much the smallest things set me off.

He straightens his spine and grows still.

“What? What happened?” I count on his hyper-focused hearing to confirm whether there’s any danger.

“Sounds like a construction crew, but why would anyone want to build something around here? Nothing ever happens in Grandon.”



Plus-sized Simmi Shergill doesn’t need to use her gift of psychic feeling to lure Alex and Dax into falling for her; they do that on their own. Choosing between the blind seer who loves her and the charming telekinetic with “bad idea” written all over him won’t be easy—especially while trying to survive high school.


Release Dates

1st Edition – May 25, 2012

2nd Edition – November 26, 2012


Formats & ISBNs for Current Edition

eBook – 978-1-62-253191-2, 1-62253-191-4

Paperback – 978-1-62-253192-9, 1-62253-192-2

Hardcover – 978-1-62-253193-6, 1-62253-193-0

Pitch (Farsighted #3)Pitch – Book #3

The dead always find a way to talk to Shapri Teak. In fact, some never seem to shut up. A frightened young girl and a spectral suitor encroach on Shapri’s privacy, day-in and day-out. They’re driving her crazy!

When Shapri discovers the opportunity to get rid of them by traveling to the spirit portal in New Orleans, she jumps at the opportunity. With Alex, Dax, Simmi, and her mother in tow, she attends Mardi Gras—the one time per year when pesky ghosts can be dispatched to the other side.

She returns to Grandon confident that all her problems are solved, but then the blackouts start. Now her best friend and kind-of-almost boyfriend are accusing her of acts she didn’t commit. It begs the question: if she didn’t do it, who did? Has everyone gone crazy, or is something sinister afoot?

Who will stand together, and who will fall to the other side? Will Alex and Shapri ever admit their true feelings for each other? Book three pitches the Farsighted series into a quiet chaos.

Release Delayed


Finally rid of the talkative ghosts that haunt her, Shapri Teak now faces a much bigger problem—blackouts. When her best friend and almost boyfriend start accusing her of acts she didn’t commit, Shapri makes it her mission to find out who really deserves the blame. Has everyone gone crazy, or is something sinister afoot?


Release Date

May 21, 2013


Formats & ISBNs

eBook – 978-1-62-253188-2, 1-62253-188-4

Paperback – 978-1-62-253189-9, 1-62253-189-2

Hardcover – 978-1-62-253190-5, 1-62253-190-6

Vertigo (Farsighted #4)Vertigo – Book #4

As captain of the varsity football team, Brady Evans basically owns Grandon High. His glory days are brought to an abrupt end, however, when a player from the opposing team steamrolls him right before he can score the winning touchdown at Homecoming. Crash, crunch, a horrible pain and… nothing.

The next day, a doctor informs Brady he will never walk again.

The near-death experience awakens in Brady a dormant and, frankly, unwanted power. “Astral projection,” the weird psychic lady calls it. Now she wants to coach him with that no-eyed freak Kosmitoras and his little gang of misfits. Why not? What else is he going to do?

Training goes well enough, until Brady returns from an exhilarating flight through the stars to find he is locked out of his own body. Scream as he may, no one can hear him. They don’t even realize an imposter has taken over his life.

Will Brady find a way to oust the usurper and put this whole mess behind him? Book four in the Farsighted series will make your head spin.

Release Delayed

Refrain (Farsighted #5)

Vertigo – Book #5

Dax finally has the chance to tell his story in this stunning conclusion to the Farsighted series.

Release Delayed







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