Among

By Lindsey Renée Backen

"I'll be here. For as long as you need me."
I remember Carter's voice so clearly that I can at least pretend he's speaking to me. He didn't say 'forever,' though he could have. Carter doesn't believe the living should obsess over the dead or that the dead should talk to them, even when they can. I swallow and splash water onto my face. Get dressed. Just get dressed. Don't think about the rest of your life or whether or not you even want it.

Everyone I can remember was left in Between, and I've returned to a life full of strangers. I have two names, two houses, and two sets of family and friends who don't speak to each other. No one knows who left me in the woods or why I went missing. No one understands how I survived.
I'm trying not to waste this chance: if I can't remember who I was, I get to decide who I want to become. And life is getting better—except someone wanted to kill me. I'm beginning to suspect I wasn't his first victim, and if I don't speak up, I may not be his last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsey Renée Backen
• Release date: Feb 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005289201

Lindsey Renée Backen

Lindsey Renee Backen writes books that cross genres and themes: like life, their stories weave threads of the best and worst of moments, triumphs, and traumas. Her fiction is deeply character-driven, centered around the inner worlds of the characters as they face outer challenges, confront their flaws, and make sense of their worlds. In her books, you will find the innocence of first love, the trauma of war and family abuse, the struggle to break free of molds and expectations, and the complexity of family relationships. Not every character will get a fairytale ending, but read on, Friend. Lindsey believes that every story, whether in fiction or your life, can emerge from the darkest of places end in hope.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

So there is nothing— nothing at all that you can tell me about the person who tried to kill you?"

Officer Elliott tucks one foot under his chair to balance himself as he leans toward me. I watch the pages of his notebook sway in the air. There are three pages of sparse notes and lots of blank space, even though he has been questioning me for over an hour. He looks as exhausted as I feel, and I push down the guilt, imagining him spending the past week heading up this investigation, the elation he must have felt at finding a missing person still alive, and the frustration of having hit another wall.

I scan my thoughts, desperate for something I can share, but if I tell them the truth, they’ll think I’m crazy. I’m sorry, I say. I can’t remember anything.

He lowers the notebook, eyeing me, and I try not to squirm. A nurse hovers on my left, pulling an IV needle from my arm. It’s the least of the medical tortures I have endured for the past week, but the last to go, other than this final grilling from the police.

Cassandra, he says, scooting forward and dropping his voice like we’re sharing a secret. We are doing everything we can to keep you safe, but we cannot make an arrest if we don’t have any leads. We know you were missing for a week. Someone hit your head several times and choked you. You somehow survived a forest fire, ending up nearly dead in the woods by the same highway where you disappeared. He spreads his hands. We can protect you, but you have to help us out. Can you remember anything at all?

I remember waking in the woods, I say slowly. And?

My tongue creeps between my lips, refusing to form words. What am I supposed to say? I don’t remember how I got into the woods. I don’t know why I was so dressed up, where I was going, or who I was with. I don’t have any idea who tried to kill me or why anybody would want to.

All I remember is waking up in Between.

My heart squeezes, and I close my eyes. I remember Jessica describing the outfit she had chosen for her very first date, unaware she’d be wearing it in the afterlife. I remember Brad creating a crown from autumn leaves with hands that were blown to bits in battle. I remember how the crown stayed on the bed the night that Miranda faded because her still-living brother decided to create memories with his granddaughter instead of dwelling on the memories of the house fire that killed his little sister.

And Carter—Carter who figured out I wasn’t like them, that I was still breathing, that a thread of my spirit was still connected to my body. But I can’t tell about Between—the realm where you are fueled by memories and can experience the world only as vividly as you can recall it—so I focus on the moments after Carter helped me get back into my body.

I remember waking in the woods, I repeat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t call out. There was a car… a man found me. Before that… nothing. When I first woke, I couldn’t even remember my name.

Officer Elliott blows a long breath through his nose. He flips the papers over, closing the notepad. Okay. Your mother is on her way here to take you home. If you remember anything at all or if you feel unsafe, call us right away. Whoever did this to you is still out there. We need all the help you can give us to catch him and keep him from trying to hurt anyone again.

My heart pounds. I feel it in my chest, my neck, and my temples. I have lived one breath away from death. But I am going home soon, wherever that is, with my family, whoever they are.

There is one thing, I say. I can’t remember a face. But there’s a man’s voice that keeps saying, ‘It was an accident. You can’t tell anyone.’ Officer Elliott’s eyes light up as he scribbles down the information, but I dash his enthusiasm with my next words. I think that’s from a long time ago, though. I don’t think it’s my killer.

I wince at the slip in words, the implication that I did actually die, but he only asks, Do you have any idea what it’s about?

I glance around, just now realizing my necklace is gone and hoping the eye from my stuffed bear wasn’t thrown out with my tattered designer gown. Something I saw when I was little. But nobody believed me.

Nobody except the stuffed bear, and he only saw half because his eye got ripped off. I hung on to that eye, later stringing it onto a black cord, replacing the gaudy plastic beads it had held before. The memory is vague, more words than pictures, and I follow it for a few seconds before I remember the officer is watching me.

I don’t know what that was about, I stutter, or why I even said it.

The door clicks open as a voice sings, I’m heeere!

Officer Elliott and I turn together. I wince, but I’ve gotten used to the random intrusions by the woman I should remember but don’t. The officer’s lips press together, but he’s already squeezed every fragment of information out of me, and he knows as well as I do that his time is up.

Remember what I said, he repeats. If you recall anything, call us right away.

Yes sir, I answer.

I know he’s trying to help, but right now, I am confused and exhausted, and he knows more about my life than I do. I don’t want to see him again.

I brought presents! Mom sashays into the room like she has every morning for the last four days, only this time she has a shopping bag. Her blonde hair is ironed so flat that the only variations in texture are the sections her jeweled sunglasses force behind her ears. Her black dress hugs a slim waist and curvy hips. A sharp, open-front white jacket frames the necklace that swoops between its lapels—a swirl of silver that transforms diamonds into flowers peeping between tanzanite stones.

I blink. How in the world can I remember the names of gemstones but have no memory of the woman wearing them? Maybe my memory loss isn’t from the bashed bit at the back of my head. Maybe it’s another trick of Between. The realm of Between feels like a fairy tale, but fairy tales can be very cruel places to live.

I glance toward the officer, reluctant to sit up in the hospital gown while he’s still in the room. He clears his throat and stands. Well, I guess that’s it. Remember to call if you need anything. He nods toward my mother as she passes. Mrs. Leroux.

Good morning, Officer, Mom answers. Don’t worry. We’re looking into this privately. After he leaves, she smiles at me, holding out a shopping bag. Here! I got you a brand new outfit. Oh, and just so you are prepared, there are reporters outside. I know you don’t like attention, but we can’t get them to go away. You don’t have to talk to them. Just stay near Simon. He’ll tell them if they get too close. People just want to see that you’re fine. She sighs. Those vultures have been camping on our lawn all week! And whatever happens, don’t let any of them know that you can’t remember anything. Her eyes gleam. We don’t want whoever tried to hurt you to feel like he will get away with it—because he won’t.

All right. I slide off the bed, taking the shopping bag. It’s a pretty bag, I say, tracing the foil-stamped silver that covers the bottom, curling into a teal top.

Oh, Cassandra. Mom sighs, but she almost laughs, so I guess it’s okay. It’s a shopping bag! Go change!

The floor is cold, and I can feel air seep through the slit of the thin gown. I try to hold it shut as I shuffle to the bathroom, but Mom is already talking to the nurse, her attention elsewhere. Inside the bathroom, I lean against the door. The room is tiny, but I can breathe better here.

I remember Carter’s voice so clearly that I can at least pretend he’s speaking to me now. I’ll be here. For as long as you need me.

He didn’t say ‘forever,’ though he technically could have. Carter doesn’t believe the living should obsess over the dead or that the dead should talk to them, even when they can. I swallow and splash water onto my face.

Get dressed. Just get dressed. Don’t think about the rest of your life or whether or not you even want it.

I dig in the shopping bag and pull out a small box. I set it on the bathroom counter, then search for the undergarments and pants folded neatly at the bottom. They’re new, and I struggle with the tags.

The outfit that the mother-I-still-can’t-remember brought for me is black and white, matching her own apparel. My shirt is black and sleeveless, hanging straight until the hem takes a sharp angle to the right. My pants are white, fitting at the top but falling in straight lines to my ankles.

It looks bland until I open the jewelry box. The bathroom light catches a thick solid gold chain that swoops, creating a netted V that suspends six rubies. The bracelet continues the zigzagging pattern, hosting another six red stones. Adding the earrings makes a total of 14 rubies on my person.

I grin as I step back outside. Mom, someone’s going to steal me just for the jewelry. You don’t think it’s overkill for leaving the hospital?

That’s not funny, she says, but continues without a beat. That’s my signature piece for this year. You save the best piece of jewelry for the very best moments. She steps close and straightens the necklace with almost a caress. And this is a best moment.

There is a friendly but firm knock at the door, and a baritone voice calls, Cass! It’s Dad. Are you decent?

Confusion crashes into my carefully constructed framework of reality, and I glance toward Mom to see if she heard the voice too. My dad is dead. A ghost even tricked me in Between, making himself look like the man he had seen in my memories, and I fell for it because I was hoping to find Dad. And I realize I remember one thing: Dad, even though I didn’t recognize Mom when I woke.

Mom brightens, calling, Come in! She’s all right.

I swing toward the door, hoping I was wrong, but the man who steps into the room is definitely not my dad. Dad matched Mom with blue eyes and blond hair, though his was a few shades darker. This man has dark hair that would curl in spirals if he didn’t cut it an inch from his head. His nose is beaked and a bit too big for his face, like someone decided he was too good-looking and cursed him when he was young.

His whole face looks a little gray, stress sagging his skin, but he carries himself like King Arthur—poised, exhausted, and getting a bit too old to be considered traditionally handsome. His eyes are brown, crinkled at the corners and baggy beneath like he hasn’t slept since I disappeared. Now that I think about it, Mom’s eyes are really puffy too, but she’s hidden that beneath layers of concealer and foundation.

Cassandra. I hear relief in his whisper, and he wraps me up in a crushing hug. His suit presses against my face and smells like the dry cleaners. I’m so glad you’re okay, he says before pulling me back to study my face. "You are okay?"

I’m sure someone has told him I was found dehydrated and nearly dead, that I have a knot on the back of my head from my would-be murderer slamming me into something hard. But he eyes me like he wants to hear me say that I’m okay before he lets himself accept the relief. I should assure him, but all I can manage is to sputter, You’re… not my dad…

Hurt flashes across his face, but Mom quickly says, Honey, this is your stepdad. Simon, she doesn’t remember anything.

You don’t… Simon stares at me before he shifts to peer at the back of my head. How is your head, anyway? Do they know what hit it?

He reaches like he’s going to touch it. I swing out of his way as a shadowy memory forms—someone grabs my shoulders, slams me against something. My heart speeds up, and I’m not sure if I want to keep retreating from my stepdad, who just summoned a memory, or cling to him in case my murderer comes back.

Because the man did try to murder me. My body lay in the woods for a week before anyone found me. If my spirit hadn’t gotten knocked out and spent the days eating and drinking to remember what it was like, it wouldn’t have sustained my body. I’d have died of dehydration. I was a fluke, both in the present world, where I managed to stay alive, and in Between, where I managed to keep breathing when no one else could. Somehow, my soul was still was connected to my body just enough to preserve it.

At least, that’s the best theory I’ve come up with. The doctors assumed that my captor kept me somewhere, and I managed to escape when the woods caught fire, then fainted, succumbing to dehydration, exhaustion, and smoke inhalation. Their explanation makes more sense than mine, but unless I hallucinated all of my friends in Between, I was running around the woods with a bunch of dead teens.

My head. Simon was asking about my head. It’s okay, I say before he decides to investigate for himself. I still get dizzy sometimes, but the nausea has gone away.

Mom puts an arm around my shoulder. Yeah. It’s probably good you were in Hong Kong when they found her. She winks at me. He doesn’t do well with vomiting.

Neither do I. I slept most of my first three days at the hospital and threw up almost the entire fourth, caught between nausea and vertigo. Mom squeezes my shoulders. Come on, Cassandra. Let’s get you home. We can look at some pictures. It’ll all come back.

Wait.

There is that name again. When I was in Between, I remembered my real dad. I asked him what my name was. He said ‘Chloe,’ but another voice called me ‘Cassandra.’

I thought my name was Chloe, I blurt.

Mom takes a short breath, then lets it out. That is your name. Was your name. We changed it when I married Simon. It’s a long story, but your name is Cassandra now. She stops stammering and looks at me with a plea. Let’s just get you home, all right?

Okay. I am so confused that my reply barely makes it out of my mouth.

It’s strange to walk through the hospital in regular clothes with only my bracelet to betray me. I shift impatiently as Simon signs me out, and the nurse stutters for him to have a good morning—even though it’s afternoon. When he hands back the clipboard, she drops the pen. Mom loops her arm through Simon’s, raising her chin and sending cool looks to every woman in the room. Simon squeezes her arm, then drops it and tugs me between them. I feel trapped at first, but the moment we walk out of the front doors, we’re swarmed by reporters and a flurry of mics and cameras. Cassandra!

I hear my name on every side, questions slung out, but they’re all speaking over each other, and I can’t understand what anyone is asking. Mom slows, and I pull closer to Simon, grateful that he’s tall and carries himself with a collected calmness that is almost imposing.

Cassandra is fine, Mom speaks slowly like they’re children, while Simon just plows a path and escorts me through. She’s fine. We just want to take her home.

Voices rattle my head. Colors blur like I’m mixing paint. I push against Simon, and the reporters close the gap between Mom and us, clustering around her for a statement. A persistent one, who looks like he’s barely out of college, trails me, asking, Cassandra, do you know who did this to you?

I shake my head without meaning to, but Simon wraps his arm around my shoulder, tucking me away from the man. The police are still investigating, he says. We are not issuing any public statements about what happened, or about the officers’ next steps. All the public needs to know is that Cassandra is safe, and we intend to keep her that way.

The young reporter jams a microphone into my face, demanding, Cassandra, do you feel safe going to the same home as the main suspect in this case?

Huh? The stunned word is out before I even realize I said it. Your brother was the last person seen with you—

Simon breaks him off. We have no reason to believe that Zander harmed her in any way. Cassandra, get in the car. I almost miss Simon’s command because he doesn’t change tones, but he nudges me gently away from the reporter.

What? I sputter, but Simon plants himself between the reporter and me, and I stumble back.

My brother? I blink. My brother is dead. Naira saw his funeral when she searched my memories in Between. Unless I have a stepbrother I don’t remember.

Simon nudges me again, and I scan the row of parked cars, finding I have no idea which is ours until Simon hits his phone screen and a black Tesla pulls out of the parking space and slowly drives to us. I jolt, wondering if a Betweener is at the wheel, but Simon isn’t fazed by his car moving without a driver.

It stops and the door to the back seat raises from bottom to top like the wing of a giant bird, getting ready to fly away with us. I dive in, grateful as the door lowers, putting a barrier between me and the reporters.

Simon calls, Come on, Clarissa! Mom is backing away from the crowd, but she is still talking. Simon opens the driver’s door and slides into the cabin, driving slowly through the mass to try and rescue Mom without running over anyone.

Are we celebrities or something? I whisper.

Simon barks a laugh. No. He softens as he glances out. Though your mother likes to pretend.

We’re definitely something, though. Everything, from the car to my necklace, to Simon’s suit and Mom’s purse, is expensive. When Carter convinced me to put my spirit back into my body and see if I could return to my old life, I’m not sure either of us imagined anything like this.

I look around the backseat, wondering if any of my friends from Between are nearby. They could follow me and we wouldn’t even know they were here, but I doubt they did. Betweeners are made up of energy, fueled by people’s memories, but even everyday activities like walking take that energy. Passing through objects takes a lot. Unless someone climbed into the car of the guy who found me, they wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

Carter.

I’ve been pumped with so many medications that my mind has been blurry, but my rescue begins to return with clarity. I never saw the blood on Carter’s shirt when he was in Between, but when he made himself visible in the road, it was all over him. The driver swerved to miss him, went ballistic trying to find him—and found me.

The car would have careened into Carter if he was in the present instead of Between’s layer of the world. If it went through him in Between…

I close my eyes as they fill with tears I can’t explain. The driver couldn’t have killed Carter even if the car collided with him because Carter is already dead. But he could have ripped all of Carter’s energy away, forcing him to fade.

Even if he didn’t, Carter is probably lying in the ditch somewhere with his arm over his eyes, waiting to recharge enough to function, just like he did when he fought the ghost who pretended to be my real dad. I push air in and out of solid lungs and try to remember every memory of Carter as vividly as I can. I feel like Peter Pan, clapping desperately to keep Tinker Bell’s light on.

Cassandra, are you okay? Simon asks. He twists in the seat to meet my eyes. Look. I don’t know what happened out there. I do know that sometimes people panic and do things they would never normally do. If Zander really did hurt you, I want you to tell us.

Who is Zander? I stare, but Simon only blinks in confusion.

He’s your stepbrother, he says. He was the last person with you when you disappeared. He’s the one who couldn’t find you and alerted us.

I sit up, remembering the ghost’s accusations back in Between. I thought he was making up the story of me leaving my brother and running into the woods after an argument.

Simon pauses, but since I don’t know if Zander hurt me or not, I don’t say anything. He takes a breath, continuing, But I also want you to know that I would not be taking you home if I suspected that he actually hurt you or that he would now. Let’s be cautious, but let’s not jump to conclusions unless we have a reason.

Mom finally climbs into the car, saving me from coming up with a reply. She smooths her hair as she speaks. Those people have no manners. But we at least have to let the community know that she is all right. She sucks in two breaths, sounding like a bull before she adds, I hope the man who did this is scared out of his mind.

I hope we can figure out who it was, Simon says.

I chew my lip as the car starts without much more than a purr, wondering if whoever it was is anywhere nearby. I returned to life determined to do all the things I’d been too scared to try before, but at the moment, I’m too scared to even leave the car. Stupid reporter.

I’ll be here for as long as you need me.

I’d assumed when Carter made that promise, he would be watching me the way he watches his family sometimes. That he might even make a phone ring like he did for his youngest brother. I know he doesn’t believe that the dead should communicate with the living, but I also assumed ‘needing him’ would last far longer than just handing me back to a living human and fading on the road.

I still need you, Carter. I still need you.

CHAPTER TWO

We live here?" I peer out of the window. We’ve been following a line of black iron fencing punctuated by square brick pillars arching to create attractive swoops. The fence guards a well-kept lawn and an asphalt road leading to a circle drive in front of a sleek house.

We have a house in Austin too, Simon says. But we liked the idea of land. This one was supposed to be the vacation house, but we’re here more often than not. And it’s closer to your mom’s work.

What about you? I ask.

Simon laughs. I work all over.

Remember anything? Mom asks.

I glance half-apologetically, because I know she’s going to hate the question. Did we ever live in a trailer?

She raises her chin, then offers, In another life, we did. She eyes me. You remember the trailer?

I sit up. Um, no. The only recollections I have of myself actually came from Carter’s memories from the year we went to school together, before he was killed. But I feel like the kids at school called me trailer trash, I answer simply. And this house is not trash.

"They called you that? Simon asks. He looks at Mom like this is only the newest of the recent revelations about my school. We need to find another school."

That’s the best school there is around here, Mom sputters. "What is wrong with people? None of those kids should even know that Cassandra ever lived in a