The Prettiest One: A Thriller
CHAPTER ONE
“MY NAME IS CAITLIN SOMMERS,” she said aloud even though she was alone.
Her feet hurt as she walked. Her legs were tired. She wasn’t sure why she was walking, but she kept going, her sore feet protesting as they carried her across the cracked pavement.
Though the night was clear, she walked in a fog. What day was it? Did she have to work in the morning? If so, she’d have to be in the office by nine. For a moment, she wasn’t certain what office that was, then remembered she was a real-estate agent. She couldn’t imagine why that fact had momentarily escaped her. Something bumped against her leg and, looking down, she was mildly surprised to see that she was holding a small canvas bag by its strap. She wondered where she’d gotten it.
She didn’t know where she was or how she had ended up there, walking across that pavement. She looked down and saw faded, painted white lines passing under her feet, one after the other, as she walked. She was in a parking lot. An empty one. No idea why. She’d simply woken up and there she was . . . wherever that was.
But no, she hadn’t truly woken up, because she hadn’t been asleep. That was how it felt, though, like she’d been sound asleep and dreaming for days. Even now, wisps of pale memories shimmered briefly in her mind before disappearing quickly, the way snippets of dreams so often do moments after waking.
I know who I am, she thought, then followed that thought immediately with, Why wouldn’t I?
The last thing she remembered was . . . well, it was hazy. She recalled . . . going to the gym, maybe? And being in a store, a small one with a bell over the door. She’d bought . . . something yellow.
She kept walking, kept putting one achy foot in front of the other, until she saw a car up ahead illuminated by the wan light falling from a thin sliver of moon. It felt to Caitlin as though she might have been heading toward the car all along without even knowing it, so she held her course.
Moving slowly, she walked all the way to the far corner of the lot, where the car waited in the moonshadow of a big shade tree. She stopped and turned. Far across the expanse of empty asphalt hunkered a big rectangle of a building. It looked like a warehouse. Even from this distance, and despite the dim moonlight, the structure’s broken windows and graffiti-decorated cinder-block walls told Caitlin that it was abandoned. She turned back to the car and peered through the passenger’s window. There were no keys in the ignition. She reached into a front pocket of her jeans and found a set of keys. She pulled them out, slid one into the keyhole in the door, and unlocked the car. Inside the vehicle, she slid behind the wheel and dropped the bag on the passenger seat beside her.
“My name is Caitlin,” she said to no one.
She started the car, then wondered where to go.
Home, she realized. Of course she should go home. Her husband must be wondering where she was.
Join the club, Josh, she thought.
“My husband’s name is Josh,” she told the empty car.
She glanced at the dashboard clock: 1:17 in the morning. Josh must be frantic. She leaned first to one side then the other, patting her back pockets. It felt like she had a thin wallet in one. The other pocket was empty. Strange—she always kept her cell phone in her back pocket.
Okay, no phone. No problem. She’d just drive home and talk to Josh when she got there.
She eased the car across the empty lot until she reached the exit to the street. It was a quiet, wooded road. This warehouse, wherever it was, was located somewhere remote. Caitlin looked left, then right, then chose left because . . . well, because she had to choose a direction.
She drove for a few miles, surrounded by trees, until the trees started to thin and signs of life began to appear—first a few houses, then a few businesses, then a strip mall. On the other side of the street from the mall, she spotted the bright yellow sign of an open Shell station. She was about to pull in, ask where she was, and figure out the fastest route home when she saw a sign for Interstate 91 North.
She nodded to herself. This situation didn’t feel right at all, and she was confused about a lot of things, but she suddenly felt strongly that I-91 would take her home. She checked the fuel gauge, saw that it was nearly full, and swung onto the on-ramp. Soon she passed a sign for Holyoke, which she knew was in Massachusetts. Finally, she had an idea where she was, even if she still didn’t know how she’d gotten there. More importantly, she knew she’d be home in Bristol, New Hampshire, in a few short hours.
Nothing made sense to her. She had so many questions. But she was suddenly very tired, so she refused to think about anything but the road ahead. She’d be home in a little while. It would be good to get home.
“MY NAME IS CAITLIN SOMMERS,” she said aloud even though she was alone.
Her feet hurt as she walked. Her legs were tired. She wasn’t sure why she was walking, but she kept going, her sore feet protesting as they carried her across the cracked pavement.
Though the night was clear, she walked in a fog. What day was it? Did she have to work in the morning? If so, she’d have to be in the office by nine. For a moment, she wasn’t certain what office that was, then remembered she was a real-estate agent. She couldn’t imagine why that fact had momentarily escaped her. Something bumped against her leg and, looking down, she was mildly surprised to see that she was holding a small canvas bag by its strap. She wondered where she’d gotten it.
She didn’t know where she was or how she had ended up there, walking across that pavement. She looked down and saw faded, painted white lines passing under her feet, one after the other, as she walked. She was in a parking lot. An empty one. No idea why. She’d simply woken up and there she was . . . wherever that was.
But no, she hadn’t truly woken up, because she hadn’t been asleep. That was how it felt, though, like she’d been sound asleep and dreaming for days. Even now, wisps of pale memories shimmered briefly in her mind before disappearing quickly, the way snippets of dreams so often do moments after waking.
I know who I am, she thought, then followed that thought immediately with, Why wouldn’t I?
The last thing she remembered was . . . well, it was hazy. She recalled . . . going to the gym, maybe? And being in a store, a small one with a bell over the door. She’d bought . . . something yellow.
She kept walking, kept putting one achy foot in front of the other, until she saw a car up ahead illuminated by the wan light falling from a thin sliver of moon. It felt to Caitlin as though she might have been heading toward the car all along without even knowing it, so she held her course.
Moving slowly, she walked all the way to the far corner of the lot, where the car waited in the moonshadow of a big shade tree. She stopped and turned. Far across the expanse of empty asphalt hunkered a big rectangle of a building. It looked like a warehouse. Even from this distance, and despite the dim moonlight, the structure’s broken windows and graffiti-decorated cinder-block walls told Caitlin that it was abandoned. She turned back to the car and peered through the passenger’s window. There were no keys in the ignition. She reached into a front pocket of her jeans and found a set of keys. She pulled them out, slid one into the keyhole in the door, and unlocked the car. Inside the vehicle, she slid behind the wheel and dropped the bag on the passenger seat beside her.
“My name is Caitlin,” she said to no one.
She started the car, then wondered where to go.
Home, she realized. Of course she should go home. Her husband must be wondering where she was.
Join the club, Josh, she thought.
“My husband’s name is Josh,” she told the empty car.
She glanced at the dashboard clock: 1:17 in the morning. Josh must be frantic. She leaned first to one side then the other, patting her back pockets. It felt like she had a thin wallet in one. The other pocket was empty. Strange—she always kept her cell phone in her back pocket.
Okay, no phone. No problem. She’d just drive home and talk to Josh when she got there.
She eased the car across the empty lot until she reached the exit to the street. It was a quiet, wooded road. This warehouse, wherever it was, was located somewhere remote. Caitlin looked left, then right, then chose left because . . . well, because she had to choose a direction.
She drove for a few miles, surrounded by trees, until the trees started to thin and signs of life began to appear—first a few houses, then a few businesses, then a strip mall. On the other side of the street from the mall, she spotted the bright yellow sign of an open Shell station. She was about to pull in, ask where she was, and figure out the fastest route home when she saw a sign for Interstate 91 North.
She nodded to herself. This situation didn’t feel right at all, and she was confused about a lot of things, but she suddenly felt strongly that I-91 would take her home. She checked the fuel gauge, saw that it was nearly full, and swung onto the on-ramp. Soon she passed a sign for Holyoke, which she knew was in Massachusetts. Finally, she had an idea where she was, even if she still didn’t know how she’d gotten there. More importantly, she knew she’d be home in Bristol, New Hampshire, in a few short hours.
Nothing made sense to her. She had so many questions. But she was suddenly very tired, so she refused to think about anything but the road ahead. She’d be home in a little while. It would be good to get home.