Seventeen-year-old Cassie is a natural at reading people. Piecing together the tiniest details, she can tell you who you are and what you want. But, it's not a skill . DOWNLOAD in P.D.F All In (The Naturals, #3) [PDF] By Jennifer Lynn Barnes” is published by scheidsrech. and cognitive science. She received her PhD from Yale University and is now a professor in psychology. Barnes Author (). cover image of The Naturals.
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Seventeen-year-old Cassie is a natural at reading people. Piecing together the tiniest details, she can tell you who you are and what you want. But, it's. (The Naturals, #1) The Naturals - Jennifer Lynn Barnes - dokument [*.pdf] A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library eBook. Editorial Reviews. From School Library Journal. Gr 9 Up-The FBI recruits Cassie Hobbes, 17, to be one of the Naturals, a group of teens with innate.
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Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. You can find this and many other great books at: Maybe this one will be the one who stops you. You feel it, every time you look at her. The certainty. The knowing. Maybe she is. Maybe she really can see things. Maybe she knows things. It was a summer job, and that kept Nonna off my back. My dad lived half a world away.
My mother was missing, presumed dead. Teenager, presumed troubled. The guy on the left was going to ask for extra butter. And the guy on the right? Whoa there, Cassie, I told myself sternly. Occupational hazard.
Not mine. I nodded—and waited. He puffed out his chest and ogled my boobs. I forced a smile. Then again, I thought as I went for refills, he might turn out to be the kind of guy who stiffs the little bitty waitress just to prove he can.
Absentmindedly, I turned the details of the situation over in my mind: Other kids spent their preschool years singing their way through the ABCs.
I grew up learning a different alphabet. Behavior, personality, environment—my mother called them the BPEs, and they were the tricks of her trade. His skin was perfect, his hair artfully mussed. A smirk played across his perfect features, and he walked with the swagger of high school nobility. Just looking at him made me feel like a serf. Casually, he surveyed the room with bulletproof confidence. I figured that if I split it in half, I might end up with half a decent tip.
I turned back toward the kitchen and caught the boy by the window watching me. Self-conscious and wary, I crossed the room. There was no getting out of taking his order, so I let my hair fall in my face, obscuring his view of it. Side of ham. I stared at him through the wisps of hair still covering my face.
Scrambled eggs were too average, too common, and this was a guy who liked to be a little bit different. Not too different, though, which ruled out poached —at least in a place like this. He smiled and closed his menu. The boy shrugged.
I put his order in. I delivered his food. The lunch rush snuck up on me, and by the time I went back to check on him, the boy by the window was gone.
There was also a business card. I picked it up. Stark white. Black letters. Evenly spaced.
There was a seal in the upper left-hand corner, but relatively little text: Across the top of the card, there were four words, four little words that knocked the wind out of me as effectively as a jab to the chest. I pocketed the card—and the tip. I went back to the kitchen. I caught my breath. And then I looked at it again.
Tanner Briggs. The name. Special Agent. Job title. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Four words, but I stared at them so hard that my vision blurred and I could only make out three letters. What in the world had I done to attract the attention of the FBI? I wanted to shut myself in my room, collapse on my bed, and figure out what the Hello Kitty had happened that afternoon. Unfortunately, it was Sunday. Cassie, we were just about to send the boys out looking for you.