How Does She Know

By Diane M. Sylvester and Andrea Rubinowitz

The ability to foretell events and connect with people in the afterlife is a unique gift—but can it also be a horrible curse?

In the page-turner How Does She Know, Anna Mavrides has been burdened her whole life by the violent visions she had as a young girl. As an adult, she decides to write a book about those visions and her family’s connection to the spirit world. It is an instant bestseller.

But her book’s publication ultimately triggers a chain of events that sees her charged with the brutal murder of a childhood friend. As Anna wrestles in her prison cell with the fractured memories and tangled relationships of her youth, her determined supporters dig to expose the motives of the spiritualist community leader and the district attorney who charged her with murder.

Their efforts could exonerate her and provide some answers about Anna’s distant past. All her life people have asked, “How do you know?” Can she finally answer that question?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Dec 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662936777

Book preview

Prologue

Just like that, summer is gone again. There’s no slow, subtle change to the seasons anymore. Now it seems like the calendar pages are torn out in fistfuls and flung to the ground.

When November barges in like this, and the landscape and the people around me curl inward and harden before my eyes, I find myself daydreaming about the summer that’s come and gone.

I love so many things about a Maine summer. I can waste away hours thinking about the beauty of the light and the luscious fragrance of the land and sea; about fields of lupines and fresh corn; buckets of steamed clams; a glass of chilled pinot grigio that mirrors the last rays of a setting sun.

When I think of summer, I think of Ferry Beach. I’ve always made it a habit to go there later in the day when the crowd has thinned out. I lay my towel down high up on the beach where the sand meets the seagrass and thickets of beach plums.

There, I sift the warm sand through my fingers like an hourglass and feel the heat of the sun radiate through my body.

I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to the symphony of sounds—the waves lapping the shore, the gulls shrieking overhead, the muffled voices of the other people.

I focus on children’s voices when I hear them. The sound of them playing at the beach—their shrieks and laughter—fills me with a melancholy so sweet and yet so aching, I’m brought to the verge of tears when I hear them.

But this year, I can’t hear them. My summer memories have faded beyond recognition. Try as I might to recall, it’s like listening to a radio station as you travel at the far edge of its signal reach—just little snippets, and then static.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, I guess. I didn’t make it to the beach this summer.

No, I spent most of my summer curled up in the fetal position on a hard steel surface. There was nothing soft and soothing about it. The place I was in made bleak November feel like the nicest month of the year. The harsh lights stayed on twenty-four hours a day, but it was the darkest place on earth.

Yes, it was a terrible summer. But as is often said, your character is forged by adversity. So in that respect, I am wiser. I am stronger. I am closer to my friends and farther away from the enemies I never knew I had.

It sounds like all I need is some ribbon and a bow, and I could tie this chapter of my life into a neat bundle and store it on the shelf to gather dust.

But I know it doesn’t work like that. At least not for me. Like my mother and her mother before her, I’ve been chosen to be a vehicle of life’s continuum, a connection between spirits who have passed and spirits here in the present. I’ll get my chance to rest eventually, I guess.

Until then, I get a front-row seat to observe this crazy drama called life. When the curtain goes down, my job has just begun.

Chapter 1

Do not look at the clock. Whatever you do, do not look at the clock. Anna looked at the clock.

God, how could ten minutes feel so long? Thank God it was Friday!

She tried but failed to stifle her yawn. As she brought her hand to her mouth, she spotted her manager looking at her through the windows of her office. Unfortunately, it was in the direct sight line of Anna’s teller window. The bank felt like a fishbowl, and she felt like one of the guppies swimming around in circles.

She averted her eyes and pretended to study her computer screen. It was open to the customer accounts directory. Let’s see what the most common first name is for men and women on this page. Then let’s concoct a story about these two. Maybe have them meet, fall in love, get married, and see where it goes.

It looks like today’s happy couple is Jason and Leah. Leah? When did that get to be such a popular name?

Anna opened up a blank document page and started to type. She drifted her eyes past the screen to check on Marjorie, the bank manager, who loved to pop up out of her comfy chair and beeline to the counter to throw a little scare into her girls.

A couple of labored paragraphs in, Jason and Leah’s story fizzled out. The romance didn’t last. That didn’t take long. About as long as her own last romantic failure, come to think of it.

There was a small clock in the bottom right corner of the screen. She tried not to look at it. But not hard enough. It was 2:21. Eleven more agonizing minutes down. Time flies when you’re having fun.

The post-lunch lull could make any work day drag, but today was especially bad. The few customers since lunch used the drive-up window, a station she rarely got assigned to because the senior tellers preferred it to the main lobby stations.

They called it the dog treats and lollipop lane. Just smile and pass out goodies.

In a small office located in the corner near the front door of the lobby, she saw Robert hunched over his desk, his face practically buried in his computer screen. He needed to get a stronger pair of reading glasses. She stared at him, hoping to get him to turn and look at her so she could make a funny face or bunny ears—anything for a laugh to kill the monotony.

No such luck. Whatever he was doing—or pretending to do—he was all in. Anna picked up a pen and a scrap piece of paper and began to doodle. Eventually, her thoughts shifted to the memoir she had been writing with her mother before she died. For the past seven months, Anna had been too grief-stricken to think about working on it.

But lately she had felt the urge to pick it up again. She had skimmed through it over the weekend, but had been too tired after work to look at it all week. Tonight she would make an attempt to start again, she vowed.

She recalled the last chapter they had worked on together. Well, the one she had worked on and her mother had picked apart. Her contribution was more often to dispute Anna’s recollection of profoundly unsettling events. That made for a rocky collaboration. Still, she pushed Anna to see it through to the end.

A memoir doesn’t write itself, she chided her a number of times. And I’d like to read it before it’s too late.

Sadly, the cancer worked much faster than Anna did. She wasn’t a professional writer, after all. The cancer, on the other hand, was right at home—it tore aggressively through her mother’s body and undercut her doctor’s original diagnosis by three months.

Having some time to deal with her loss and step away from the book was probably a good thing. She was able to put away some of the painful memories that were stirred up by writing the book and grieve for her mother without that baggage.

When she thought about their conflicting memories, she reminded herself she was the one who asked her mother for help, not the other way around. Maybe it put her on the defensive. Everyone has something to hide. Anna had the feeling that her mother was leaving things out: cutting, pasting, and papering over the voids she didn’t want to talk about.

But then, maybe she was too. When she set out to write the book, Anna made a vow to herself to be as honest as she could. But after doing some online research into the science of memory, she had to admit that her recollections could be just as faulty as her mother’s.

When a person recalls their past, are they simply pledging allegiance to memories that inadvertently jumped the tracks long before?

The complexity of this seemingly simple reflex made Anna wonder how humans could trust any recollection as absolute. To form a memory, the brain has to make synaptic connections between neurons to grab bits of information sequestered in different regions. Then it has to consolidate those bits, melding the explicit events with the implicit emotions. What could possibly go wrong?

One night after an argument about their conflicting recollections of a conversation they had with Anna’s childhood psychologist, Dr. Keating, she tried to explain that to her mother.

Mom, maybe neither one of us is right and neither one of us is wrong. Our memories aren’t actual recordings of events. They’re influenced by how we’ve decided to see those events.

Her mother called that hogwash, which was predictable. Her worldview was starkly black and white. You would think a fortune teller would reside in the gray zone between the absolutes. That wasn’t the case with her mother.

She wouldn’t even acknowledge that the passage of time might have altered her memories. After all, most of the events they discussed happened decades ago. All the life in between had to have an effect. How could it not?

Anna sensed movement in front of her and looked up to see an elderly man in a flannel shirt, suspenders, and an orange Moxie ball cap staring at her.

I’m sorry to interrupt your thoughts, but I’d like to get some of my hard-earned money out of this bank before your fees or the government get it all, he muttered.

Despite his gruffness, Anna was happy for the interruption and amused by his attitude.

You and me both, Gramps, she replied with a chuckle.

His face brightened. Well, all right, dear. But make sure you take yours, not mine.

When she got home that night, she microwaved a chicken pot pie, gave her cat, Boots, some of it, ate the rest, and then opened up her laptop to resume writing her memoir. She propped a photo of her mother on the desk next to her.

If she could stay on track and stop being lazy, she could finish it by late winter, maybe the end of March. What the hell else is there to do that time of year anyway? It’s usually cold and damp, the snow banks are filthy brown, everyone’s in a shitty mood and past ready for winter to be over. Why not sit down and chip away at it every day?

Then she’d be able to dedicate it to her mother, warts and all.

And see if she could find an audience for it. Stranger things had happened.

Chapter 2

As Anna rummaged through her bureau drawer for a hairband, the teapot whistled, Boots purred insistently and rubbed against her ankles, and the old digital clock in front of her flipped to 8:15.

To say she was frazzled was an understatement. Anna threw her hands in the air and yelled, Help!

Her first TV interview, and here she was, on the verge of showing up late. In her mind, she had choreographed this morning to run like clockwork: after a deep, refreshing sleep, she’d wake up early, eat breakfast, meditate, calmly gather her thoughts, and then show up at the TV studio as an engaging, self-assured author.

So far, nothing had gone to plan and she was due there in forty-five minutes. Instead of feeling rested, she was exhausted after tossing and turning most of the night. Instead of feeling self-assured, she felt riddled with self-doubt. Instead of feeling witty and articulate, she felt dull and tongue-tied.

She ran a brush through her thick, shoulder-length auburn hair as she looked in the mirror. It was the first time in as long as she could remember that she felt the need to scrutinize herself. What would the TV audience see? A tall, big-boned woman in her late fifties with deep lines etched in her face and bags under her dark brown eyes that seemed to only accentuate her fatigue.

She pulled her hair through the hairband and sized up her outfit: an outdated but barely worn eggplant-colored knee-length dress; brown mid-calf boots that she polished and buffed before she went to bed to conceal their age; a colorful silk neck scarf that she found buried in the back of her closet; and an ivory-colored sweater in which she found a ticket stub from a Merrill Auditorium concert she went to on an ill-fated, one-and-done date over a decade ago.

Anna smoothed the front of the sweater, adjusted the scarf, and took inventory of her big hoop earrings, necklaces, and multiple bracelets. You’re a duck out of water, she said to her face in the mirror. Quack, quack.

With a raw bagel clenched in her teeth, she was halfway out the front door when she turned abruptly and ran back to the kitchen table to grab a copy of her book. The cat whipped his tail back and forth as he looked at her accusingly. She ripped off a piece of the bagel, tossed it on the floor, and patted his head. I’m sorry, Boots. Mama’s late for her self-implosion.

A short while later, as a studio assistant did her makeup, her mother spoke to her as clearly as if she were sitting right in front of her: You’ll do fine, darling, trust me. I’m so proud of you.

Anna’s reaction to her mother’s message showed in the mirror; she saw the fatigue that clouded her eyes lift and the tension in her face dissipate.

She took a deep breath and inhaled her mother’s voice into her lungs. She felt it seep into her bloodstream and wind its way through her body. She could smell her musky sweetness, feel her hand stroking her hair and her arms wrapping around her.

When she opened her eyes, all the obstacles that presented themselves in front of her that morning faded. Just like the fog that enveloped the Portland waterfront as she raced to the studio. The sun had emerged, and everything was vividly sharp and bathed in golden promise.

"How Do You Know? That’s such an appropriate title. How do you know?" the TV host asked, with a cock of her head.

Anna smiled. She was ready for that question.

You see my lips moving and you hear corresponding words coming out of my mouth, right?

The host agreed she did.

So you just know that I’m the one who said those words. You don’t question whether that’s the case at all, do you?

Well, no, I’ll give you that. I mean, I can’t refute that, can I?

You could try, but—

The host raised a finger and cut her off. But then, you’re alive, aren’t you?

Anna pinched her sides playfully.

I think I am. I didn’t feel like it this morning when I woke up, though, she chuckled.

But the host wasn’t in a lighthearted mood.

So you’re equating talking to the dead and having visions of events that supposedly happened many years after to a conversation between two living human beings? Pardon me for saying, but that’s kind of—well, it’s a stretch, isn’t it?

When you present it as a logical equation like that, of course it’s a stretch. So is the concept of God when you think about it, but your TV station has Reverend Peter—I forget—

Reverend Paulson?

"Right, Paulson, holding a prayer service every weekday at 6:00 a.m. called Talks With God. Which, by the way, is fine with me. I watch him sometimes when I wake up. He talks about events that are recorded in the Bible that are pretty unbelievable too. The creation of our universe, Jesus’s ascension to a place called heaven, to name just a couple. Do you question those?"

The host gave Anna a tight smile and then held up Anna’s book.

"We’re talking to Anna Mavrides, a Portland resident and author of the newly released How Do You Know?, a book with startling claims about her lifelong visions and ability to communicate with the dead."

She looked from the camera to Anna, briefly, and then back.

After the break, we’ll shift gears from talking about the fundamentals of religion to some of the more … well, bizarre events the author claims have happened over her lifetime. We’ll be right back.

She nodded to the cameraman, shuffled some notes in front of her, and then leaned back in her chair and looked at Anna.

We have about three minutes, she said matter-of-factly. Then we’ll have a ten-minute segment. More water?

Anna had her eyes closed. She heard the host’s voice coming from a distance. Susan was her name. Susan Cook, she reminded herself. She felt a familiar tingle in a spot right between her eyes and then a buildup of pressure in her temples.

Ms. Mavrides. Are you all right?

Anna saw long white translucent window curtains billowing sensuously. She saw a buttery, soft light filter in through a window. She heard the whisper of a breeze and saw distant treetops sway in response. Then she heard a woman’s voice.

"Tell Susan it’s her aunt Lynette. Ben is with me. We’re together and we’re fine. We miss her and we love her. Tell her not to cry. She can go on and be happy."

Anna felt a hand grip her arm and the host’s voice, sharper now.

Ms. Mavrides. Can you hear me? Do you need some help?

Anna opened her eyes and blinked. A trickle of sweat rolled down her neck.

May I have a tissue, please?

The host stepped back a pace and turned over her shoulder to the studio assistant. She came back, handed Anna a box of tissues, and then she sat back down in her chair.

You made me a little worried there. Will you be all right to continue?

Anna wiped her neck and forehead before looking at the host.

I’m fine. Should I tell you now that I had a message from a relative of yours, or do you want to wait until we go back on camera?

The host was taking a sip of water. Her arm stopped halfway, then she put the glass down.

You what? she asked sharply.

I received a message from one of your relatives to give to you.

The host rolled her eyes.

Oh, cut it out. Is this some kind of gimmick? Part of your routine?

Anna smiled.

I know you’re a skeptic. Don’t worry, you’re not the first I’ve met, and definitely won’t be the last.

I’m trying to be open-minded and nonjudgmental. I am a journalist. That’s my job.

Well, okay, whatever you say. It’s pretty clear you’ve got your mind made up about me. So why not let me fall flat on my face on camera in front of everyone? Then you can be proven right.

The host chewed on her lower lip while she looked long and hard at Anna. Then she looked at her watch and got up.

Are you sure you want to do this?

Anna nodded.

We have ninety seconds. I’ll go talk to the producer.

Anna watched as the host huddled with the TV staff. They had an animated conversation, each glancing over at Anna. Then they broke apart and the host came back, sat down, and smoothed her skirt.

Well, this should make for interesting live TV. I’ll call your bluff.

Anna felt her throat constrict. She swallowed and took a deep breath. She noted the host looked combative as she shuffled her papers, as if Anna had delivered her a personal challenge. The producer pointed at the host and then at Anna. The cameraman swung the camera toward them, and Anna watched the producer count down with her fingers—three … two … one.

This will be a first for me, and I’m sure for many in our studio. Our guest, author Anna Mavrides, told me during the break that she received a message from a family member of mine who has passed.

She hesitated, then nodded emphatically.

Yes, that’s what I said. She has a message for me from a family member of mine who has passed. She asked if she could reveal this on camera as a validation of her claim to be able to communicate with the dead. And I’ve agreed. Isn’t that right, Anna?

That’s correct.

I should point out that we have never met before today. And as far as I know, you don’t know anything about my family. I need to ask, have you researched my family and me prior to the show? Have you Googled my family or me?

No, I have not. Googling is not my thing, Anna replied with a nervous laugh.

Well, we’ll have to trust your word. Go ahead and share that message with me and our television audience, if you will.

Anna recited the message. Susan Cook looked shocked to the core when she heard it. Then her face crumpled and she buried it in her hands and started sobbing. In her peripheral vision, Anna saw the stunned looks of the producer, the cameraman, and the assistant. Then the producer stepped in and said that they would go to break.

Later, Anna would look back on this moment and wish it never happened. She would give back the cathartic release she felt after decades of doubt and anguish. She would give back the fame, the adulation, and the money that came with it. She would trade all that back and tell Aunt Lynette to find someone else to talk to.

But that would require a crystal ball, wouldn’t it?

Chapter 3

Anna drove her beat-up Nissan from the TV studio in a daze. She was holding the steering wheel and operating the gas and brake, but she felt like she was on autopilot. Instead of driving in the direction of Forest Avenue toward her home, she found herself cruising along the Eastern Promenade, looking out at Casco Bay and the islands in the distance.

She found a parking space at the top of the hill and was stepping out of her car when her phone rang. It was the first of a succession of calls that lasted through the day and into the night. In fact, for some time, her phone seemed to never stop ringing.

The first calls were, of course, from friends and family, those with immediate access to her number. They ranged from clueless astonishment—Oh my God, Anna, that’s how you knew I was going to marry Jimmy—to self-validation—I always knew you had an uncanny ability—to disbelief—I thought the fortune-telling thing was just a … well, side gig, make-believe, fun kind of thing.

Her sister, Vicky, asked how much their mother knew. (It’s complicated, Anna replied. I’ll tell you the whole story next time I see you.)

Her uncle, Mina, said, Are you fucking kidding me? You had all those visions, saw all those things, and you didn’t tell your family? (I told Mom and Yia Yia and that’s it, Anna responded. If you want to know why, buy the book.)

Her friend Ginny, at the bank where Anna worked, said, We’re all in shock here, Anna. Well, I’m not, but everyone else. The boss is freaked out.

After a few of those, Anna started screening her calls. Her old flip phone was unreliable with contact names, however, so she listened to the voice mails as she walked along the grass strip of the Promenade.

It was a picture-perfect day. The sun was liquid gold, the sky was cobalt blue, and virgin white clouds floated overhead. She looked out at the boats knifing through the water, past Great Diamond Island, and farther south, Peaks Island. On this day, Portland, Maine, was paradise.

This is the craziest day of my crazy life, she thought. The phrase repeated itself like an echo and, before she knew it, she found herself yelling it out loud. She looked around, but no one was in earshot, thank goodness.

Anna wandered over to the scruffy hilltop playground and leaned against a chain-link fence to watch a young girl plummet down the slick steel slide. The girl sprinted past a woman waiting at the bottom as soon as her feet touched the ground, racing back up the ladder to go down again.

That’s life, full of ups and downs. You go, girl. Don’t let people keep you down. When you’re down, you get back up. Don’t ever give up.

A swell of emotion washed over her. Her secrets were finally revealed. She felt lighter; the feeling that she was stranded on a deserted island—oblivious ships passing by day and night, year after year, decade after decade—felt like it had lifted.

I’ve known love and laughter too, she reminded herself. It’s not like my life has been all grim.

She turned slowly to take in the panorama of the parkland that sloped toward the backdrop of the ocean. She and John had spent so many days and nights here. Lying in the grass, her head nestled against his chest as they looked up at the stars. So long ago. But so nearby now, she could feel his heart beating in her ear.

His beautiful face was etched in her mind. God knows she had tried to shake it out, like an Etch-a-Sketch, and erase it forever. But the image was permanent, along with the accompanying caption—why me?

She was so heavy and so unattractive then, nearly three hundred pounds when they first met at age sixteen. Her inner dialogue almost always started with, You’re so … so fat, so stupid, so uninteresting, so cowardly, so gluttonous. As long as it was a negative adjective, it didn’t matter which. She had worn a deep groove in that soundtrack by then.

Yet, here was this dreamboat boy walking by all the pretty girls who craved his attention. Every single one of them wanted him like they needed air to breathe. Especially after he ignored them. Walking by them all, eyes locked on her with that penetrating, indecipherable look.

Her phone rang and she shook away her thoughts. She didn’t recognize the number, but after hesitating, answered.

Hello. Is this Anna Mavrides?

It is.

My name is Rachel Weiner. I’m a literary agent for Bombeck in New York. Do you have a moment?

And just like that, Anna was on her way to becoming an overnight literary sensation. Much more, actually, because in addition to writing the book, she was the book. That was Rachel Weiner’s pitch.

God, that was incredible what you did on the talk show. That clip is going viral in a huge way. The host’s reaction! I mean, priceless! I don’t know if you can do it on demand, but you’re going to be huge on TV, book signings, you name it.

Anna hung up the phone in a daze. They had agreed to meet in New York. Details to be ironed out.

She watched a passenger jet descending over the ocean in the direction of the airport. The plane’s shadow moved over the water beneath like a tethered ghost. New York! The Big Apple! This was crazy!

She floated on air with no destination in mind and headed down the slope toward Fort Allen Park. Giddy with joy, she stopped and got a red snapper hot dog with fried onions and a can of ginger ale from a vendor’s cart and found a bench that looked out on the water.

A lone seagull eyed her from the railing of the walkway. It was mid-May, too early, apparently, for the gulls to have organized the ravenous pack hunting that made eating outdoors anywhere on the coast of Maine an act of courage.

She bit into the garish red hot dog and it burst in her mouth. A little food dye and pig parts won’t kill me, she mused. It’s a special day, after all.

That’s why they call them red snappers, Mr. Gull. I’m sure you’ve had one before, she said mockingly as the gull eyed her lunch.

An hour later, she was still there. The sun was obscured by clouds when she hit the mute button on her phone and climbed back up the slope toward her car.