Jennifer Armentrout: Don’t Look Back

“You were showing off on the balance beam,” my father added gruffly. “The instructor told you not to do—what was it?”

“A back handspring,” my mom said quietly, keeping her gaze trained on me.

“Yes.” He nodded. “But you did it anyway.” He met my stare then. “Angel, you don’t remember anything?”

Heaviness spread from my chest to my stomach. “I want to remember—really, I do. But I …” My voice cracked. I pulled my hand free, holding it to my chest. “I don’t remember.”

My mom forced a smile, clasping her hands together in her lap. “It’s okay. Scott has been really worried. Your brother,” she added when she saw my blank look. “He’s at home right now.”

I had a brother?

“And all your friends have been helping with the search party, hanging flyers and holding candlelight vigils,” she continued. “Isn’t that right, Steven?”

My father nodded, but the look on his face said he was a thousand miles from here. Maybe he was wherever this Samantha Jo was.

“Del has been beside himself, spending day and night looking for you.” She smoothed back a piece of hair that had escaped her twist. “He wanted to come up with us, but we thought it would be best if he stayed behind.”

I frowned. “Del?”

My father cleared his throat, refocusing on us. “Del Leonard. Your boyfriend, angel.”

“My boyfriend?” Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Parents. Brother. And now a boyfriend?

My mom nodded. “Yes. You two have been together since, well, forever, it seems. You’re planning to go to Yale in the fall with Del, like your fathers.”

“Yale,” I whispered. I knew what Yale was. “That sounds nice.”

She glanced at my father pleadingly. He stepped forward, but two deputies entered the room. My mom stood, smoothing out her pants. “Gentlemen?”

I recognized Deputy Rhode, but the older officer was new to me. No big surprise there. He stepped forward, nodding at my parents. “We need to ask Samantha some questions.”

“Can it wait?” asked my father, suddenly coming out of his slouch. An air of unmistakable authority surrounded him. “I’m sure there’s a better time.”

The older officer smiled tightly. “We’re happy that your daughter appears to be in one piece, but unfortunately, there’s another family who’s still hoping for news on their daughter.”

I sat up straighter, looking between my parents. “What?”

My mom came to my side, taking my hand once more. “They’re talking about Cassie, honey.”

“Cassie?”

She smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “Cassie Winchester is your best friend. She disappeared with you.”

Cassie Winchester. Best friend. That was an important term, but just like mother or father , there were no memories or emotions tied to it. I stared at the officers, feeling as if I should show some sort of emotion, but I didn’t know this girl—this Cassie.

The older cop introduced himself as Detective Ramirez, and he proceeded to ask the same questions that everyone had. “Do you know what happened?”

“No.” I watched the liquid in the IV drip into my hand.

“What is the last thing you remember?” Deputy Rhode asked.

I lifted my eyes. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and he nodded when my eyes met his. It was such a simple question, and I really wanted to answer it correctly. I needed to. I glanced at my mom. The cool facade was starting to crumble. Her eyes were glistening, lower lip thin and trembling.

My dad cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, can this please wait? She’s been through a lot. And if she knew anything right now, she’d tell you.”

“Anything,” Detective Ramirez said, ignoring my father. “What is the last thing you remember?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. There had to be something. I knew I’d read To Kill a Mockingbird . More than likely, I must’ve done so in class, but I couldn’t picture the school or the teacher. I didn’t even know what grade I was in. This sucked.

Deputy Rhode moved closer, earning a disgruntled look from his partner. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a photo, showing it to me. It was a girl. She actually looked like me. Her hair wasn’t as red as mine, though. It was browner, and her eyes were a startling, beautiful green—much more stunning than my own … but we could have passed as sisters. “Do you recognize her?”

Frustrated, I shook my head.

“It’s okay if you don’t. The doctor told us it may take a while to come back, and when—”

“Wait!” I jerked forward, forgetting that damn IV. It tugged at my hand, nearly coming loose. “Wait, I remember something.”

My father stepped forward, but the detective warned him off by saying, “What do you remember?”

I swallowed, throat suddenly dry. It was nothing, but I felt as if it was some kind of huge achievement. “I remember rocks—like boulders—and they were smooth. Flat. Colored like sand.” And there was blood, but I didn’t say that, because I wasn’t sure if that was true.

My parents exchanged looks, and Detective Ramirez sighed. My shoulders slumped. Obviously that was a fail.

The deputy patted my arm. “That’s good. That’s really good. We think you were in Michaux State Forest, and that would make sense.”

Didn’t feel good. I stared at my dirty nails, wishing everyone would all go away. But the officers lingered, talking to my parents as if I weren’t capable of comprehending anything they were saying. Cassie’s continued disappearance was major. I got that. And I did feel bad. I wanted to help them find her, but I didn’t know how I could.

I sneaked a peek at them. Detective Ramirez watched me with eyes narrowed in intense, distrustful scrutiny. A shudder rolled down my spine, and I hastily looked away, feeling as if I deserved that look he was giving me.

Like I was guilty of something—something terrible.

Tendrils of fear coated in confusion crawled through me when the strangers—er, my parents—checked me out of the hospital the next day. I couldn’t believe the authorities were just letting me leave with them. What if they weren’t really my parents? What if they were psychos kidnapping me?

I was being ridiculous.

It wasn’t as if random people would claim a seventeen-year-old girl for no reason, which is exactly how old I was. Discovered that when I peeked at my chart at the end of my bed that morning.

My gaze slid to my father’s head of dark hair. An air of influence coated his skin, seeped into everything he touched. I didn’t need to know anything about him to realize that he was powerful.

Tall trees and rolling green hills that were as well manicured as the golf course I’d seen on the TV in my hospital room surrounded the road leading up to their house. We went over one dip in the road, and I saw a cluster of small houses that were cozy.

We drove past them … in our Bentley.

Quickly, I learned that they were rich. Sickeningly rich. It was funny how I didn’t remember squat, but I knew what money looked like.

I kept rubbing the palm of my hand over the supple leather. The car had to be new because it had that crisp, just-manufactured scent.

Then I saw our house. Holy crap, it was the size of a small hotel. An intimidating structure with thick marble columns in the front, rising four or five stories into the sky, and the garage to the left was the size of the houses we’d passed a few moments ago.

“Is this really our house?” I asked when the car rounded a fountain—kind of gaudy—surrounded by foliage in the middle of the wraparound driveway.

Mom glanced back, smiling tightly. “Of course it is, sweetie. You’ve lived here your whole life. So have I. This was my parents’ home.”