Dead Pretty

by Samantha Towle

  Copyright © 2020 by Samantha Towle

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.samanthatowle.co.uk

  Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  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.

  ISBN-13: 9798652013424

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by Samantha Towle

  About the Author

  He’s here again.

  That’s the third day in a row.

  He stands out to me because he doesn’t look like the usual type of guy I see in here.

  Okay, so the standard type of men who do come in the library, where I work, are typically sixty and over. And this guy is most definitely not sixty.

  I would give him late twenties, early thirties.

  He is also everything I would have been attracted to in my former life.

  Tall. Built. Brown hair. Short on the sides, a mess of waves on top. Stubble. Eyes so blue that you can see the color clear across the room.

  He unzips his well-worn black leather jacket as he walks inside, revealing a white T-shirt. Dark blue jeans on legs. Scuffed-up brown biker boots on his feet.

  A messenger bag hangs from his shoulder. A motorcycle helmet in his hand.

  I’m fairly sure he’s new to town.

  I would know if I had seen him around before. Not that I’m a social butterfly who gets to know people.

  That was the old Audrey.

  The new Audrey avoids all possible contact with people.

  But I do pay attention, especially to people who are new in town.

  The stranger runs his hand through his hair, messing it up more as he walks over to the table closest to the windows.

  I watch as he rounds the table, pulls out the chair that puts his back to the windows, and sits down, giving him a view of the open library space, the reception desk, and the door he just walked in through.

  But not the stacks that I’m standing behind, where I’m putting away returned books. Although, currently, I’m not doing anything but cataloguing this stranger’s movements.

  He sits at the same table, in the exact same chair, every day that he is here.

  So, he’s either a creature of habit. Or he wants a bird’s-eye view of the library.

  The old me would have faced the window and looked out at the view, ignoring what was happening behind me.

  The new me would take the same seat that he has.

  I know what my reason would be for sitting there. I don’t know his.

  And that bothers me.

  Probably more than it should.

  I didn’t always used to analyze people like this. The old me would never have spared a single thought about why a person took a particular seat in the library.

  The new me analyzes everything.

  I can’t afford to miss anything. I can’t risk history repeating itself.

  The stranger puts his helmet down on the floor beside the table. Takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair he’s sitting on. Gets a laptop from his messenger bag, places it on the table, and opens it up.

  He does the exact same routine every day.

  And I watch him every day, like a creeper.

  This guy could just be a creature of habit. And I’m acting like a total paranoid wack job.

  The stranger’s eyes suddenly flick up from his laptop and look straight at the bookshelves I’m standing behind. Like he knows that I’m here, observing him.

  My breath catches, and I jump back, knocking into the shelves behind me.

  “Shit,” I hiss, rubbing my elbow that I just banged on the wood.

  When the ache in my arm subsides, I take a measured step back to the shelves and peer through the gap in the books.

  He’s back to looking at his laptop.

  He doesn’t know I’m hiding behind here, scrutinizing and analyzing him.

  Just like Tobias did to me.

  A shudder runs up my spine, making the back of my neck prickle.

  Look what I’ve turned into.

  A suspicious, lurking, untrusting lunatic.

  I work in a public library, and because some new guy has started coming in, I think he has an ulterior motive.

  Like he’s here to kill me.

  Christ.

  I have never even spoken to the guy, not even gotten within a few feet of him, and I have pegged him as a fan of Tobias Ripley’s work. Or worse, a copycat, and he’s come to finish the job that Tobias didn’t when he left me alive that night.

  I have officially lost my mind.

  I step back from the stacks and press my hands to my face as I let out a breath.

  I just need to get back to work, putting these returned books away, and forget all about the stranger over there.

  He’s not here for me.

  I’m safe now.

  I pick a book up from the pile of returns on the cart. Check the numbered code on the spine and slide it back into its home. Ready for someone else to check it out.

  When my shift at the library is over, I walk back to my apartment. I take a leisurely stroll. I’m not in any particular rush. It’s not snowing at the moment, and it’s not like I have anything to get home for.

  Although it might not be snowing, it’s still as cold as balls here in Jackson. Typical Wyoming weather for this time of year. Not that I’m from around here. But when I moved here, I quickly learned to keep myself well wrapped up, so I wouldn’t freeze to death.

  It’s not a way I want to die.

  It’s on my list, among a few other routes to death, of things I would rather avoid.

  I meander down the sidewalk, and I people-watch as I go. I’m not really sure why I do it because all it does is make me feel envious of those people living their lives the way they want to. Out shopping with friends or loved ones. Couples hand in hand.

  And now, all I’m reminded of is what my life used to be like before everything happened.

  If you had asked me a couple of years ago where I saw myself, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been here.

  I decide to stop at the coffee shop I pass daily and grab a takeout hot chocolate.

  I push through the door and enter the warmth of the shop. My eyes do a quick scan of the place, and I stop in my tracks.

  The stranger from the library is here.

  My heart does a weird jolt in my chest. I don’t know why.

  The strang
er is sitting at a table in the back. He has a book in his hand.

  My eyes travel down to the book he’s holding. It’s the one he checked out earlier.

  I know that because I was seated at the computer near the checkout desk, looking up when a book was expected in. I surreptitiously watched while my manager, Margaret, checked his book out. They made small talk. I wasn’t close enough to hear.

  It was the nearest I had been to him so far.

  And, yes, it is weird that I’m cataloguing these facts.

  I’m starting to think I have truly lost my mind.

  Or that I left it back in Chicago before I moved here.

  The stranger looks up from the book in his hand, and I quickly avert my eyes, acting as though I didn’t see him.

  Not that he knows who I am.

  You know, because I’m the weird library lurker.

  My nerves are all over the place. I’m not sure why because it’s not like he knows me. Or that I have seen him at the library.

  I’m relieved though when my drink is ready and I can leave.

  I pick up my drink, but before I make for the exit, I give one quick look in the stranger’s direction.

  He’s staring right at me. My eyes meet with his.

  My stomach flips over.

  His lips tip up into a friendly smile.

  I quickly look away, turn, and walk out of the coffee shop.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Why am I so affected by this guy’s presence? I don’t even know him!

  It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

  The only thing I can come up with is because he’s hot and I am physically attracted to him.

  It has been a long time since I have felt any form of attraction to any man, so that’s why my hormones are overreacting.

  That is all it can be.

  It’s quiet outside when I let myself in my building.

  I walk up the stairs to the second floor, where my apartment is.

  As I turn down the hall, I see a cat sitting in the hallway.

  A bad memory crawls over my skin. But I force it away.

  The cat watches me approach.

  It’s gray and white. Fluffy. Totally adorable.

  I stop when I reach it. Bend down and give it a pet. “Hey, cutie.”

  It meows, nuzzling its head against my hand.

  “What are you doing out here, all by your lonesome?”

  I look around to see if anyone else is in the hall, maybe its owner, but no sign of anyone.

  I check for a collar, but it isn’t wearing one.

  Maybe it’s a stray that got in the building.

  Do I just leave it here?

  It would be mean to just leave it, but my track record with cats is not good.

  The last cat I liked was killed.

  Because of me.

  My spine stiffens. I stand abruptly and start to walk away toward my apartment.

  Seconds later, guilt catches up with me, and I glance back over my shoulder.

  The cat is following me.

  “Oh, honey, no, you don’t want to follow me. Cats and me, well, we are …” I sigh and shake my head. “Basically, long story short, you’re better off elsewhere.”

  And now, I’m explaining myself to a cat.

  This is what solitude will do to a person.

  I keep walking, and when I reach my door, the cat is next to my feet, brushing up against my leg.

  “I don’t have kitty food, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I sigh down at the cat, who is just looking up at me. “The last cat I liked … well, let me just say, it didn’t work out so well for him.”

  The little stray meows up at me.

  I sigh again and put my key in the door, unlocking it. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I open the door, and the cat trots on in.

  I close the door behind us and lock it. Slide the upper and lower dead bolts into place and put on the chain.

  I put my bag down and then do a sweep of the apartment, like I always do. A routine I have to do every time I come home.

  Checking all the rooms, every place a person could possibly hide in my small apartment. I make sure the windows are still locked. And I turn on all the lights. Even though it’s still light outside, it will be dark soon, and I don’t like walking into any room when it’s dark.

  When my search is done, I come back to the living room. The cat has made itself at home on the sofa.

  I shrug off my coat, hanging it up, and kick off my shoes.

  “You hungry, huh?” I walk into the kitchen. “Well, I don’t have cat food. But I think I have some canned tuna.”

  I reach into the cupboard and get a can of tuna, hidden behind the soup.

  I get a clean saucer from the dishwasher and open up the can.

  The cat is up and jumping onto the counter straightaway. I probably should tell her to get down—hygiene reasons and all—but she’s so lovely that I can’t bring myself to.

  “You hungry, cutie?” I murmur, giving the cat a stroke.

  I open the can and empty it out onto the saucer. The cat is on the food immediately.

  I get a small bowl and fill it with fresh water from the tap, and I place it next to the saucer of tuna.

  I leave the cat eating, and I go into my bedroom and change out of my work clothes. I put on a fresh tank top, pull a T-shirt over it, and put on some sweatpants.

  I head back into the living room and glance over at the cat, who is still working its way through the tuna.

  Do I take it to a shelter?

  But then if no one comes to claim it, they might put it down.

  I can’t let that happen.

  I could put a poster up around the building. But that would mean giving out my cell phone number.

  Definitely not happening.

  What to do?

  I guess I could try knocking on my neighbors’ doors. The cat could belong to one of them.

  Getting up, I go and retrieve my sneakers from my closet and put them on.

  “I’m just going to go and see if I can find your owner,” I say to the cat, like it actually knows what I’m saying or cares where I’m going.

  Keys in hand, I pause at the door.

  I’ve only been inside for a short period of time. But it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I always struggle to open my front door.

  Because of …

  No, don’t think about it.

  Don’t think about any of it.

  I slide open the first dead bolt.

  Then the second.

  Unlatch the chain.

  Turn the lock.

  Hand on the door handle, I take a deep breath.

  Nothing is there. Nothing is there. Nothing is there.

  I let out the breath while pushing down on the handle, and I yank open the door.

  The hallway floor outside my apartment is empty.

  I close my eyes, momentarily relieved.

  I step into the hall and shut the door behind me, locking it.

  Then, I start the task of knocking on each of my neighbor’s doors and speaking to people I have spent the last six months avoiding.

  I let myself back into my apartment, locking the door behind me. The cat is sitting on the sofa, looking at me.

  “Well, seems no one knows who you belong to.” I shrug.

  Not one of my neighbors had a clue. Except the elderly lady in apartment 212, who I learned is called Chloe, has severe arthritis, and is actually really nice. She told me that, a few days ago, a new guy had moved into apartment 209, which is down the other end of the hall from mine, so the cat could possibly be his.

  But when I knocked on apartment 209’s door, there was no answer. So, I’ll try later.

  I do my check of my apartment again.

  Stupid, I know, because I was gone all of fifteen minutes, but I won’t settle until I’ve done it.

  When I’m finished, I grab the book I started last night—about a hot-as-h
ell hockey player and the girl he shouldn’t be in love with but is.

  I might not be able to have love in my life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t read about it.

  Taking a seat on the sofa next to my new friend, I put the TV on for background noise. Total silence makes me uncomfortable.

  The cat climbs into my lap and gets herself settled.

  “Guess you’re sitting here then.”

  I begin reading my book, and I stroke her soft fur, enjoying the sound of her sweet, little purring noise.

  I have gotten only halfway through a chapter when there’s a knock at my door, and I almost jump out of my skin.

  I scare the crap out of the cat as well. It skitters to the other side of the sofa.

  “Sorry,” I whisper to the cat, pressing my hand to my chest against my pounding heart.

  Putting my book down, I get up and walk on quiet feet to the front door.

  Reaching up on my tiptoes, I peer through the peephole.

  And my heart stops.

  It’s the guy from the library.

  He’s here at my front door.

  I take a step back.

  Why is he here?

  How does he know I live here?

  Blood starts to rush to my head.

  I feel dizzy.

  I reach for the wall for support.

  Another knock.

  “Hello?” His voice is deep and throaty, and it does a combination of things to me. Makes my stomach flip and my fear increase.

  It’s confusing to me.

  What should I do?

  Ignore him? Pretend that I’m not here?

  “Uh, my name is Jack. I live in the building. Apartment 209. I moved in a few days ago.” His voice is clear as glass through the door. “My cat got out, and our neighbor—Chloe from apartment 212—said that you found her.”

  A couple of things happen in this moment.

  I realize that he knows I’m in here. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given me the whole spiel through the door. Which makes me feel stupid for acting like I wasn’t here.

  This guy lives in my building?

  I’ve seen him at the library but not here. But to be fair, it’s not like I see any of my neighbors. I make it my business not to.

  And the cat is his. Which gives me a mixed feeling of relief and disappointment.

  In this short time, I’ve really gotten to like my furry friend.

  Licking my dry lips, I swallow before speaking, “Sorry. Yes. Just hold on one second.”