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Marissa Lete


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36


About the Author


Book 1 of the Echoes Series

Copyright © 2021 by Marissa Lete

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Farook Maya

Cover Copy created by BlurbWriter.com


For Briana,

The first one to believe in me and my writing






Chapter 1

When the bell rings to let the students of St. Martin High School know that it’s time to head to class, I sigh in relief. Within seconds, the noise around me dulls. Students say goodbye to each other, then head in different directions to their classrooms, and as they leave, the once stifling, endless stream of sound fades. The sounds of this year, last year, and the years before that, all piled up in one room where teenagers are constantly talking over each other can get really loud.

I would know because I can hear it all.

And that’s why, when the last bell rings to indicate the start of class and the first thing I hear is Mrs. Andrews telling everyone to turn in their research papers at her desk, I start to panic.

Research paper? The one I hadn’t even started working on yet because the due date—I’d thought—was still two weeks away? Did I accidentally get the date mixed up with something else?

My head shoots up from where I’d been resting it on the desk, and I glance around the room in a moment of confusion as the sound of papers shuffling fills the air. But, I realize with a sigh of relief, no one in the classroom has moved. In fact, Mrs. Andrews is still sitting at her desk, pulling up today’s presentation on the projector.

I’d misheard. The research paper in question isn’t from today’s class, it’s from last year’s. What I’d heard was just an echo—a sound from the past—and I hadn’t been paying enough attention to recognize the distinction.

Mrs. Andrews gets up from her desk. “Good morning, everyone!” Her voice is just as cheery as last year’s, but this one, I can assure, is definitely from the present. Her past voice continues speaking, too, but I try to ignore it, focusing on the present version of her as she introduces the lesson. At least, until my best friend distracts me.

“I went to a party,” Grace whispers to me from the seat on my left, a look on her face that tells me all I need to know about this supposed “party”: it wasn’t good.

I raise an eyebrow, questioning. “You did?”

“Well, Andy went to the party, without telling me, and got drunk and ended up fracturing his wrist. I had to go get him.” Her lips purse in frustration.

I scowl. “What do you mean, you had to go get him?”

“It was—”

“Laura and Grace? Do you have something to add?” We both turn our heads towards Mrs. Andrews, who is glaring at us in annoyance. As the room quiets, I hear her voice from last year explaining the lab the class was going to do that day, and behind it, barely audible is the low timbre of the male teacher from two years ago mumbling something to his class. I’m pretty sure the guy never took a public speaking class because no matter how hard I try to listen to his lessons, I can never make out any of the words. Which, in retrospect, is kind of nice, because it means I have less noise to ignore when I need to focus on the present.

“No, sorry,” Grace says, looking down at our shared desk a little sheepishly. Mrs. Andrews gives us a stern look before going back to teaching, and an awkward feeling spreads through the room as our classmates share glances at one another, then look back at us.

When Mrs. Andrews isn’t looking, I roll my eyes in Grace’s direction; it’s not like we were being that loud. Mrs. Andrews just has it in for Grace, most likely because Grace is well known for being one of the chattiest students in the school. She might have tried to separate us, except early on, Mrs. Andrews learned that it doesn’t matter who Grace sits next to- she’ll talk to anyone. Putting Grace next to me was her last, exasperated effort to quiet the unruly student. Which, in theory, was a nice plan, since my reputation of being “the quiet one” usually meant that anyone around me stayed pretty quiet, too. Except Mrs. Andrews didn’t know that Grace is my best friend, one of the few people in the school I actually do talk to.

Surprisingly, for the rest of the period, Grace manages to hold her tongue. While she’s busy trying to keep her lips sealed, I just listen to everything. As is the case with any classroom I’m in, there are a lot of

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