Forget Me Not
Authors: Stacey Nash
Forget Me Not
Collective Series #1
Stacey Nash
Forget Me Not
Copyright © 2014,
Stacey Nash
All rights reserved. Ebooks are not transferable. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Emily Ward
Cover Art by Fiona Jayde
Book design by Tricia Kristufek
Publisher’s Note:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Entranced Publishing, LLC electronic publication: 2014
Entranced Publishing, LLC
Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States of America
www.entrancedpublishing.com
Fiction is Fact. Know the Truth.
Since her mother vanished nine years ago, Anamae and her father have shared a quiet life. But when Anamae discovers a brooch identical to her mother’s favorite pendant, she unknowingly invites a slew of trouble into their world. Because when the brooch and the pendant are worn together, they’re no longer pretty pieces of jewelry—they’re part of a highly developed technology capable of cloaking the human form. Triggering the jewelry’s power attracts the attention of a secret society determined to confiscate the device—and deal with everyone who is aware of its existence. Anamae knows too much, and now she’s Enemy Number One.
She’s forced to leave her father behind when she’s taken in by a group determined to keep her safe. Here Anamae searches for answers about this hidden world. With her father kidnapped and her own life on the line, Anamae must decide if saving her dad is worth risking her new friends’ lives. No matter what she does, somebody is going to get hurt.
dication:
For my husband: without your love and encouragement, this story would never have been written.
ments:
There’s an old saying
: it takes a village to raise a child. Well, sometimes it takes a community to write a book and I need to say thank you to my writing community. My writers group, who provide the support only a face to face group can. Especially SE Gilchrist, who was Forget Me Not’s very first reader—I’m sorry you read that awful first draft. Thank you for being the lovely person you are and telling me it was wonderful. My online friends; the Aussie Owned and Read girls, my fabulous critique partners, Lauren McKellar, Katie Hamstead, JM Bray and the countless beta readers who read this story at various stages. Forget Me Not wouldn’t be the story it is without each and every one of you. A special mention to my right hand CP and dear writing friend, Anabel, who provides friendship and support on a daily basis. Without our regular texts, brainstorming sessions, and crisis interventions, I would have fallen off this path long ago.
The whole team at Entranced Publishing, who are not only fabulous to work with, but took a chance on a brand-new author. Thank you for having faith in me and in Anamae’s story. A special thanks to my fabulous editor Emily Ward, who truly is the best.
And last but certainly not least, my family. Thank you to my mother for instilling a love of reading and books in me at a young age. You never discouraged my antisocial obsessive reading. It’s because of you that I love words. Thank you to my father who without the hours of debate growing up I’d never have imagined the massive conspiracy theory that is The Collective. And the biggest thank you to my ever supportive husband and soundboard, Dave. Without your encouragement and support I never would have written a single word. I’m sorry for all the dirty dishes and late nights while drafting this story consumed me. I love you.
CT I
Hidden Knowledge
All we know is still infinitely less than all that still remains unknown.
~ William Harvey
r One
It’s not getting any
easier to tell my mother what’s happened, what she’s missed, what’s been going on in my life. It’s not getting any easier to survive each day without her. It’s not getting any easier to think of her and not cry. Elbow on my writing desk and chin cupped in my hand, I stare at the yellow notepaper. The lines across it are as empty as my pounding head. The spot where the tip of my favorite pen touches is marked by a growing dot, evidence that there are no right words.
It’s not getting any easier.
Hoping to find inspiration, I glance at the photo waiting to be slipped into the envelope with this letter. Normally I put aside a nature shot for her, but this one’s a ‘selfie’ of me and Will. His sandy hair looks kind of messy the way it falls into his bright eyes, and his arm, resting over my shoulders so naturally, pulls us close together. Our grins say more than words ever can.
Twirling the pen between my fingers, I gaze out the window at the soft autumn afternoon and daydream about what to write. A distant clang like metal against metal sounds from outside. Will must be at it again. I shoot up, lean over the desk, and raise the window, letting a rush of warm air brush my face.
His jean clad legs stick out from under the hood of a beat-up car parked in their yard. That car is like a full time job, he works on it so often now. He backs out and hoists a motor, or something, onto his shoulder, lifting like it weighs no more than his kid sister. He looks up, catches me watching him, and grins. I wave and, with a sigh, plonk back into the chair, dropping my gaze to the blank sheet in front of me. I really want to write her.
For nine years I’ve been writing these letters and placing them in my top drawer with a photo. It’s become a yearly tradition. At least if we ever find Mom, she’ll know what my life’s been like.
Nothing comes to me. None of the thoughts ambling through my mind are quite right. I drop the pen, pinch my lips together, and tap my fingers on the desk in a sharp rhythm that cuts through my aching head. I need the right words.
I last saw her on an ordinary March school day the year I was eight. She packed my lunch, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and waved goodbye. I climbed into the bus. As she stood on the curb, she didn’t look happy or sad, scared or frightened
—just the same as any other day.
Heaviness squeezes my chest and makes each inhalation of breath hurt. I’ve played that day back in my mind over and over, analyzed every detail: her wave, her smile, her words, her haunted look. Did she know it was goodbye?
Not knowing leaves a complete emptiness inside me. Knowing if she’s alive or dead, or why she hasn’t come back would make it so much easier. Especially since Dad barely mentions her anymore, and no matter how many times I turn her photos around, they continue to spin and face the wall. I guess it’s just too hard for him.
I shake my head in an effort to expel the memories, but it’s no use. The lines on the paper blur, my eyes slide shut, and it hurts too much. I can’t do this right now. Grabbing my camera off the desk, I slam the window shut and run down the stairs, shouting to Dad, “I’ll be back for dinner.”
“Wait. Can you grab milk?”
He walks out of the kitchen, a five dollar bill pinched between his fingers. I pluck it from his outstretched hand and turn to leave, but his hand closes over my shoulder, spinning me around. “Everything okay?”
I close my eyes and expel a long breath. He won’t want to hear it, so there’s no point sharing. His words surprise me, though. “I miss her too.”
He pulls me into his chest, and it’s too much. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I throw my arms around him, holding him as tight as I can while he runs a hand over my head. “Sweetheart.”
I cling to him. “It’s just….”
“I know.”
He holds me for a long time, until my tears stop. When I pull away, I rub the telltale wet streaks from my cheeks, and shove the money in my pocket. “Milk, right?”
He nods, and I turn for the door.
“Anamae,” he says, “I love you, kid.”
A weak smile raises my lips. “Love you too.”
Outside, I head straight to the white picket fence separating our yard from Will’s. He’s been my best friend since he moved here in the sixth grade, and I’m so grateful his parents decided quiet suburbia was a better place to live than the inner city. I slap my hands onto the flat tips and stretch over, calling, “Will.”