AFTER
I hear an echo as sound hums its way into my ears. It’s a heavy noise, reverberating as it gets louder. Louder. Louder—I’m afraid my head will burst from the vibration, and finally my eyes flutter open and it stops.
I see sky above me—blue and cloudless. Blinking quickly, I try to get my bearings. Sensation returns to my fingers and I feel the grit of rock and sand beneath them. The air is thin and dry.
I sit up and rest my elbows on my knees, looking around. I’m in a park of some sort: Sandy hills with cacti surround me; a fountain in the center flows. It’s quiet and peaceful, but at the same time, my heart starts to thump a little harder.
Where am I?
I try to think back to the last thing I remember, but nothing comes to me. It’s like I just . . . appeared, alone in the desert.
I stand, stumbling when I take a step as if adjusting to my height, to my body—both unfamiliar. I’m disoriented as I walk toward the street, crossing the hot sand on my way to an empty block lined with parked cars.
The sun settles in my bones, and I lift my face, letting it warm my cheeks. The heat feels like home. Like love.
Just then a glint of light from a car’s side mirror catches my eye. I stop, fear seizing me as I stare at my reflection in the passenger window, ignoring the hot pavement that’s burning the soles of my feet.
Because I realize: I have no idea who I am.
CHAPTER 1
I don’t recognize the face staring back at me. The girl in the reflection has blond hair and wears a plaid schoolgirl outfit, nothing like the white tank top and cutoffs I have on now. I hold up a handful of my hair, studying the deep brown waves as the reflection mimics my movement with her blond hair. I meet her eyes once again, trying not to panic. But as I watch, the girl slowly changes—her skin beginning to glisten, shine. Brighten.
I take an unsteady step back.
And suddenly my reflection explodes in golden light. When she’s gone, there is only me—long dark hair with pale blue eyes and olive skin. Images fill my head and I can see my entire life being written. The universe creates me: my childhood in a sleepy Colorado town, my father teaching me how to ride a bike. I hear my sister’s whispers late at night after our mother died when I was eight.
My name is Elise Landon. And I’m about to wake up.
I notice something in the back pocket of my shorts and reach for it. When I take it out and open my palm, I nearly choke on the heavy feeling that weighs in my chest. It’s like a longing for another place. Another time.
In my hand I hold a small guardian angel figurine set in a smooth, clear stone. It’s beautiful, a promise of love. Of forever.
For a brief second I remember everything about who and what I used to be. But most of all, I remember Harlin. And I wonder how he’ll find me if I’m someone else.
The dream sticks to my skin as I turn, my legs tangling in the pink cotton blankets. The memory of it is fading fast, even as I fight to hold on to it.
“Elise,” my sister says again, pushing my shoulder. I groan in response but otherwise ignore her. The edges of the dream fray, and when it’s gone completely, I roll over and yawn.
“No,” I say before hearing what Lucy wants. Chances are, if my sister is waking me up in the middle of the night, it’s because she needs help escaping.
“Please?”
I finally open my eyes and find her standing in the dim light of my bedside lamp. I laugh, taking in her appearance. She looks like a hipster ninja—black knit cap over her short pixie cut, black tank top, leggings, and heavy lace-up boots. Her eyeliner and lipstick are dark, her nails are blood-red, and her jangling bracelets are noisy enough to make her getup not matter. She’ll never sneak up on anyone, but she looks sort of cool, so I almost appreciate it.
“Dad will hold me personally responsible,” I say, gathering my brown hair on top of my head and fastening it there with an elastic band from my dresser. “What exactly will you be doing, and who will you be doing it with?”
Lucy grins wickedly. “It’s not like that. He’s just a friend.”
“I don’t slip out to see my friends at three a.m.”
“You don’t have any friends.”
“Mean!” But I laugh and hit her with a pillow. She’s not wrong, although it sounds harsher than the reality. We just moved to Thistle, Arizona (aka Middle of Nowhere), a month ago, when our dad took over as the pastor of a small church in town. Seriously, this place makes Tombstone look like a metropolis. Back in Colorado I’d had plenty of friends. I just haven’t gotten around to it here yet because people are outnumbered by cacti by about a thousand to one.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy says halfheartedly. “I promise you’ll be popular once school starts again. Junior year is when all the fun happens, believe me. But for now, help me cultivate my social life and get me out of here before Dad wakes up.”
“I’m borrowing your car to drive to work this afternoon.”
“Fine, whatever.” She waves her hands to hurry me along. “Let’s go.”
Victorious, I climb out of bed and open my bedroom door, poking my head into the hallway. Moving boxes still rest on the tiled floor, and I suspect they’ll stay there until my father gets around to unpacking them. But with his schedule, that’s not likely to happen anytime soon.
I point my sister toward the garage as I go in the opposite direction, tiptoeing past my father’s partially open bedroom door. There’s no snoring or other obvious signs that he’s asleep, so I say a prayer to not get caught. Which I immediately realize is kind of wrong, but it’s too late to take it back.
When my older—and much less responsible—eighteen-year-old sister gets into trouble, my father usually groups me in with her punishment. Sure, I’m an accomplice, but I don’t think it’s entirely fair. I’m not the one sneaking out. Besides, Lucy is going to be a senior. She should be able to go out after dark. The restrictions of being a pastor’s daughter, I guess.
I get to the keypad at our front door and type in the disarm code, wincing when it beeps. I listen, and when the house stays quiet, I give Lucy the thumbs-up and she slips into the dark garage. I count to ten, about as long as it will take her to get out the side door, and then key in the code again. It beeps, reassuring us that the house is secure—albeit less one member—and then I make the careful walk back to my room.
My sister has been sneaking out since middle school, but it wasn’t until last year that my father got hip to her activities—which was hard to avoid when she was brought home by a police cruiser at two in the morning. It’s part of why my father wanted to move us here—to give us a fresh start. Since that night, it has been overparenting at its best. Even though I know my father has good intentions.