Bygones

By Lynette DeVries

Amber West has gaping holes in her memory ever since a car wreck on an icy bridge nearly claimed her life. 

She remembers this much: she's an orphan and a bibliophile, she works at a thrift shop called Bygones, and the guy she's been pining over wants nothing to do with her. Her recovery is off to a slow start, but the list of things she doesn't know is growing at an alarming rate. 

 

Why has her best friend been MIA since the accident? 

 

Why does her gut tell her she wasn't alone on that bridge when everyone else claims otherwise? 

 

Why do certain vintage items practically beg Amber to take them off the shelves—only to torment her? 

 

Just when it seems nothing will ever make sense again, a chance encounter with Eden—a girl with ice-blue eyes and a case of wanderlust—leaves Amber shaken. Now it seems the post-coma side effect she's been trying to ignore—weird glimpses of long-buried truths—is forcing her to face an impossible mission. 

 

Can she answer these otherworldly calls for help and break free of her own haunted past before it's too late . . . or will she be stuck in limbo forever?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diamond Lil Press
• Release date: May 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201809393

Lynette DeVries

Lynette DeVries spent countless childhood hours at her manual typewriter creating choose-your-own-adventure stories and mysteries inspired by the Nancy Drew series.After college, she began writing scripts for various shows on Americana Television Network, and later she wrote episodes of the nationally syndicated Could It Be a Miracle, hosted by Robert Culp. She also wrote for print news and magazines, radio and advertising, but her first love is fiction. Her published novels include The Geminae Duology (Book One: Synchronicity and Book Two: Salvation), OtherLife, The Scars That Remain, Bygones, Grift, and her newest release, Punchline.

Book preview

1

Amber wasn’t dead after all.

These faceless voices—batting comments about her back and forth over her head like a balloon—were all the proof she needed.

The female’s voice, tinged with impatience, came first: You buzzed?

She smiled! The young male behind this voice sounded close enough to touch. Two minutes ago. I swear to God.

A scuffing of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, then a sigh. Just a grimace, most likely. Gas, or a muscle twitch.

I don’t think so. Soft touch on her wrist. She can hear us, by the way. I was just reading that—

Pro tip, candy-striper? Stay off the Internet. A drawer opened and closed with a bang. I’m on med rounds, so don’t hit the call button again unless it’s urgent, okay?

Right. Sorry.

After a few beats, silence gave way to the intro of a song, the strains of an electric guitar muted by the device playing it. The melody was vaguely familiar.

The male voice, reduced to a whisper just for Amber: This is the original version. The Las released it in 1988, but it didn’t really hit until 1990. The sound of fingers drumming on knees. Been featured in at least half a dozen movies since. So simple but so brilliant, right?

Amber attempted another smile, but if she succeeded, he didn’t catch it. The effort took all she had, and now she felt herself fading again. She tried to resist—for his sake as much as her own—but the temptation to let go was strong.

I know you’re in there somewhere, Amber. Someone had turned down the volume of his voice—and the song he’d cued up just for her.

She wanted to tell him that she was here, to reward his loyalty with a clenched fist or the flutter of an eyelid, but her body was lured by the seduction of oblivion, and her mind had no choice but to follow.

2

Two sips into her morning oolong, Jasmine yearned for a do-over.

She’d known better.

You didn’t squeeze a tarot reading between brushing your teeth and drying your hair—especially with Mercury in retrograde. You didn’t ask questions unless you were willing to hear the truth.

Jasmine had gotten out of bed feeling a little off, but now her anxiety was through the roof. A glance at the clock confirmed that she was running late, but then she reminded herself that she was the boss. Her emotions might be at the mercy of Mercury’s chaotic whims, but she could turn the OPEN sign in her shop whenever she damn well pleased.

But first: a quick cleansing.

She went to the mantle above the fireplace and let her fingers float over the arrangement of items plucked from nature: dried blossoms, crystals, stones. She found what she was looking for—selenite for protection against bad vibes, and a smooth stick of palo santo.

She ran her thumb over the milk-white crystal, up and down, and recited the first mantra that came to mind: May all beings be safe, may all beings be happy, may all beings be free.

She tucked the palo santo into an ash-darkened abalone shell and struck a match to light one end of it. Her hand trembled, and she swore under her breath. Normally this routine calmed her, but the gnawing in her gut persisted.

It’s just a card, she told herself. She waved a hand over the smoldering wood and inhaled the fragrant smoke. Stop being so damn literal.

She’d only drawn this particular card once before—the armored skeleton on horseback. No one had died afterward, but her long-term boyfriend had dumped her by the day’s end for someone less sensitive.

It had taken half a dozen sage burnings and a silent retreat to put that energy vampire in her rearview mirror.

She inhaled again, eyes closed, and reminded herself that she was safe. She was okay, here and now.

She tucked the selenite into her bra—a boost for her heart chakra—and grabbed her purse. She could pace the floor, fretting about what the death card meant, or she could lock her apartment door behind her and open the front door of Bygones and get on with her day.

3

Amber’s first waking thought: I’m fffffreezing.

This was no ordinary chill, the kind solved with a plush cardigan and a cup of hot cocoa. This was an inside-out cold that made her teeth chatter and hijacked her muscles with uncontrollable shivering.

What she needed was another blanket, like the electric one her mom always hauled out when she was sick.

Amber moved to swing her legs out of bed, but they had other ideas. They didn’t so much as twitch—at least as far as she could tell. This realization sent a wave of adrenaline out from her chest to the tips of her fingers and started her heart pounding.

She couldn’t move.

Wait—why couldn’t she move?

Increased brain activity on EEG, a female voice nearby said. Heart rate is fifty-five and rising.

Another voice: How’s her temp?

Ninety-six point three, up one degree.

Another realization washed over Amber—this isn’t my bed! She opened her mouth to protest but something bulky was jammed between her lips and made it impossible to talk. Inside her mouth, her tongue felt swollen and dead.

Facial twitching noted, the voice said. Heart rate is sixty and holding steady.

Another voice—this one belonging to a man—boomed close enough to make Amber flinch. Let’s take it slow, gang. Reduce to three milligrams of propofol and recheck neuro and vital signs hourly. Keep an eye on her blood pressure.

Yes, Doctor.

Amber tried to open her eyes—were they taped shut?—but when they wouldn’t cooperate, she gave in to exhaustion.

We have eyelid movement, the female voice said.

Expect some twitching here and there, but we’re looking at the next twenty-four hours, nice and easy. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, huh? I’ll pop in a little later.

---

Once, when Amber was little, her eyes had swollen shut after a neighbor’s cat had rubbed up against her face.

She had known better than to pet cats, let alone smash faces with one, but her mom had been too worried to scold her. She’d used a wet washcloth to gently coax the crusted goop that glued her eyes shut.

Mom wasn’t here to help now. Amber sensed that she was surrounded by strangers. She tried to apologize, but she only managed a guttural moan.

Here she comes. This female voice sounded elated. Has someone notified the family?

Another voice, softer: Parents are both deceased. No siblings. Coworker has been the only visitor. There’s a social worker lined up.

A tongue-cluck, then: Poor thing.

Maintain dopamine and norepinephrine drip. There it was again, that familiar, male voice—all business—and the spicy aftershave that came with it. Watch that BP. This is the tricky part.

BP is 105 over sixty and climbing.

Let’s extubate, he responded. Maintain steady O2 for now.

Something poked the bottom of Amber’s foot, making her toes curl.

The female voice again, a smile behind it. Patient is responsive to stimuli.

Someone patted her knee. Good girl. Right on time.

---

Sandpaper.

Amber’s eyelids felt like sandpaper, stiff and rough. Her eyeballs rolled behind them, left and right. She coaxed her lids into slits.

Welcome back, Miss West. The voice was sing-song and cheerful and reminded her of her old kindergarten teacher.

She blinked against the sudden assault of bright light. The mask over her face muffled her grunt. What—

The doctor at the foot of the bed nodded, and the nurse beside her reached out to remove the hissing mask. That’s better.

What? A tear slid from the corner of her right eye, prompting the nurse beside her to reach for a tissue. Where am I?

The doctor, a gray-haired man wearing a white coat over a teal polo, came forward and perched on a rolling stool beside the bed.

Miss West, I’m Doctor Garrison. You’re at Columbia Memorial Hospital in Astoria. You were in a car accident on the bridge—a very serious one.

Amber let her eyes slide from the doctor’s face to the nurse, who stood with a clipboard against her chest. She had spent countless hours at this hospital—subsisting on vending machine snacks and sleep stolen on the recliner beside her mom’s hospital bed in the oncology unit—but she’d never been a patient herself. Oh.

You might not remember the details—at least, not right away.

Amber let her tongue slide over her teeth, which felt fuzzy and unfamiliar. She wrinkled her forehead and tried to remember an accident—but there was only emptiness. Nothing.

That’s to be expected, Dr. Garrison said. You’ve been out for a while, and a certain level of short-term memory loss is par for the course with this kind of traumatic brain injury.

Out? Amber blinked at the doctor. Out where?

The doctor offered a patient smile. "We performed emergency surgery to relieve