Ghost, interrupted

Review by Booklist Review

Anjali Kumar has spent her whole life trying to suppress her psychic talents, but when handsome ghost hunter Scott Wilder tracks her down for help with a case, she reluctantly agrees to assist him in ridding a single mother's house of a pesky spirit. Anjali is successful in getting the spirit to cross over to the great beyond, and to her surprise she finds herself embracing her gift and signing on to work for Scott's company, The Cold Spot. The Cold Spot gains another employee in telekinetic Coulter Marshall, a charming Southern hustler who has made his way from Tennessee to San Francisco. But the three face serious competition from Scott's former fling, Vivica, who runs a ghost-hunting team of her own and doesn't share Scott's concerns for safety while hunting paranormal entities. Singh's third novel is out-of-this-world fun and, with a compelling cast and possible love triangle, definitely has the makings of a potential series. Let's hope this isn't Singh's only visit to The Cold Spot. --Kristine Huntley Copyright 2006 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

An amateur ghost-hunting team takes on a professional-grade haunting in this pale paranormal novel by the author of Bollywood Confidential and Goddess for Hire. Former stockbroker Scott Wilder recruits Indian-American psychic Anjali Kumar for his San Francisco ghost-hunting firm, the Cold Spot. Soon, the pair picks up the telekinetic drifter Coulter Marshall, whose golden-boy looks get more ink than his talents. The trio lands jobs removing spirits from expensive homes, but Singh's ghosts aren't scary in the least; they're just a pretext for the heroes to zip around the Bay Area and for Scott's ex-girlfriend, parapsychologist Vivica Bates, to re-enter the picture with her own paranormal investigation team. By the time the teams go head-to-head at a military base to impress the Department of Defense by exorcising the spirit of a tortured soldier, the mission is less important than the goofy antics that ensue. The spooky moments are brief, but the book's unlikely heroes make for pleasant company. (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

First-generation Indian American Anjali Kumar is psychic, but her parents made her promise never to tell anyone. When her computer-programming job is outsourced to India, she undergoes a crisis-should she look for another programming job or attempt to make a living using her psychic abilities? A chance encounter with Scott Wilder, founder of the ghost-hunting company the Cold Spot, has her teaming up with Scott and Coulter Marshall, a charming Tennessean with alarmingly powerful telekinetic powers to cleanse Bay Area homes and businesses of their paranormal baggage. But poltergeists aren't the only trouble for Anjali-she finds herself in the middle of a love triangle with her two coworkers, and a very human villain named Vivica Bates is set on causing trouble for the Cold Spot. This is Singh's third novel (after Goddess for Hire and Bollywood Confidential) about young Indian American women who are blessed-or, occasionally, cursed-with special powers or talents. It's a formula, but as in Singh's earlier books, the result is fast paced and clever, and it works. Recommended for chick-lit collections.-Nanette Donohue, Champaign P.L., IL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

In the latest from Singh (Goddess for Hire, 2004, etc.), a young woman with psychic abilities joins forces with an earnest paranormal investigator and a sexy telepath to bust ghosts. After losing her ho-hum computer programming job, Bay Area cutie Anjali Kumar is recruited by reformed stockbroker Scott Wilder to work for him at "The Cold Spot," a sort of supernatural detective agency where clients go to rid their homes of unwelcome spirits. Long denying her "gift" due to the supreme disproval of her traditional Indian immigrant parents, Anjali is initially hesitant, but she warms to Scott's enthusiasm and the idea of finally being able to find a positive outlet for her skills. Lacking supersensory talents of his own, Scott also enlists the criminally handsome Coulter Marshall to the team. A Tennessee-born drifter with the ability to move objects with his mind, Coulter discovers he can move people as well when an angry--and armed--lesbian catches him with her girlfriend. Unlike Anjali, Coulter could care less about using his power for good--he just needs a place to crash and finds an easy mark when the independently wealthy Scott takes him in. Together, the fledgling firm builds a reputation for "cleansing" haunted locations of their unhappy apparitions, while Anjali finds herself caught up in both Coulter's flirtations and her preppy boss's more subtle adoration. The trio gets their biggest case when they are approached by the government to clear an unused military complex of an evil "entity" that is responsible for at least one death. To complicate matters, they must share this mission with a rival team, headed by Scott's aggressive onetime paramour, Dr. Vivica Bates, who brings the mentally unstable empath Hans Morden to the party. The supernatural element is neither scary nor believable enough. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Ghost, Interrupted Chapter One Anjali San Jose, California When Anjali was a kid her parents made her promise never to tell anyone she was psychic. Personally, she'd found such a precaution unnecessary but she swore anyway. Honestly, did her parents think she'd go around making introductions like, "Hi, my name is Anjali Kumar and I can communicate with the dead. What's your name?" That's right. Anjali could communicate with the dead, but she couldn't beat the house in Vegas. Go figure. She was the black sheep in the family, the skeleton in the closet (although thanks to a certain fondness for vodka and chocolate, she hardly considered herself bone-thin). But Anjali wasn't in the psychiatrist's office that gloomy afternoon to talk about her parents . . . much. She was there to talk about the whole psychic thing. Or rather, a way to shut it off. Namely drugs. If Prozac could quiet a child's love of starting fires, then surely it could help her--a woman too psychic to function. Across the cherrywood desk, Dr. Feldman held court in a plush leather armchair. The smile she leveled carried a distinctly patronizing glint. "You realize, Anjali, that everyone is born with some extrasensory ability. Knowing the phone is going to ring before it does. Disliking someone you just met without knowing why . . . but reading minds, communing with spirits . . . well, that just doesn't exist. All of the world's so-called psychics have proven to be frauds." Great. How could Dr. Feldman--a psychiatrist who bore an eerie resemblance to Barbra Streisand--possibly help her when she didn't believe psychic abilities were real? When she didn't believe Anjali's problems were real? Anjali wished she'd never made the appointment. She'd gotten her hopes up after seeing an ad on TV. The actress in the commercial with the soothing voice had promised, "Whatever your problem, a little white pill can help." Whatever her problem . . . After she hit puberty, Anjali's abilities had zoomed into warp drive. She had only to touch an object to know who held it last. Any wonder she wasn't a big fan of vintage clothing? Anjali had no clue where her so-called gift came from. According to what she'd read, a person was usually born with ESP, inherited through DNA like blue eyes or male pattern baldness. At twenty-eight she had the same golden skin, brown eyes, and wavy black hair as the rest of her family. But to her knowledge, none of the other Kumars ever slapped a bumper sticker on a car that read: Honk if you're telepathic . Sometimes Anjali wished she was just plain old crazy. There was nothing wrong with crazy. They had a cure for crazy. Crazy was good. Sanity was overrated. Dr. Feldman steepled her hands and narrowed her eyes, focusing on her patient. "Now Anjali, this problem you have of being overly sensitive to the world around you--" Translation: Another neurotic basket case . "--merely nerves. A change of scene might be in order." I co-own a sanitarium . "There are methods of relaxation you can try--" Electroshock therapy is making a comeback. Great. Of all the luck, she'd managed to find the one psychiatrist in the nation who didn't leap at the chance to prescribe medication. And Dr. Feldman was the only shrink in the area she could afford. Her crappy-ass health insurance didn't cover psychiatric consultations. She'd tried everything and every form of therapy to gain control of and subdue her ability: yoga, transcendental meditation, regular meditation, therapeutic art classes, rebirthing, past life regression, interpretive dancing, and sensory deprivation. Nothing worked. "Let's get back to high school," the good doctor delved. "You'd begun describing those years to me." The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them. "They called me Carrie." "Carrie?" "You know the movie with Sissy Spacek? Pig's blood on prom night?" "And how did that make you feel?" Lame question alert! "Angry, of course . . . but eventually the teasing stopped." "Oh?" "Well, I reminded them of what happened at the end of the movie. Carrie mentally locked the doors of the gym and everyone inside was burned alive." "Aha." Dr. Feldman began scribbling something in her notepad. Anjali took a deep breath. She had to give this one more shot. "Dr. Feldman, I really think what I need is an antidepressant or maybe a tranquilizer? Just something to dull my senses, help me get through the day?" "Tell me more about wanting to kill your classmates," the doctor prompted. Anjali dug her nails into her palms and bit back a scream of frustration. Dr. Feldman was no Barbra Streisand and this wasn't The Prince of Tides . She'd get no help with her demons. She took a deep breath and tried to center herself. After all, it could've been worse. Dr. Feldman could have prescribed what countless relatives had--a husband. Time and time again she'd heard, "You're a pretty girl but you're nearly thirty-- Hai Ram !--and your looks won't last forever." Oh, who was she kidding? There was no antidepressant on earth that could shut down her sixth sense. Unlike most people's image of a psychic, Anjali Kumar did not have gruesome dreams of serial killers committing their crimes, nor did she make millions dispensing advice via a 1-900 number. Being psychic was not as cool as it sounded. Ghost, Interrupted . Copyright © by Sonia Singh. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Ghost, Interrupted by Sonia Singh All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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