Page 13 of Beautiful Ugly

By Charles Whittaker

I remember what Kitty said about Charles never finishing his tenth book, the one he thought was his best, but here it is. She also said that he never told anyone anything about it, including her, not even the title. I pour myself another drink—it helps me think—and consider the options. Charles Whittaker was once a bestselling author, a giant in the mystery and thriller genre in his day, but he hadn’t published a book for years. If he had written what he thought was his best novel, why would he hide it beneath the floorboards in his writing cabin? As always, I wonder what my wife would do and wish that I could ask her.

I pick up my mobile even though I know there is no signal. I paid to keep Abby’s phone working all this time in case someone called with information about what happened to her, but also so I could hear her again when the calls went to voicemail. Abby’s number has always been saved in my contacts as the wife. It was something we used to laugh about. I dial it now, just as I often do when feeling lost, but it doesn’t go through. I feel so alone as I stare down at the manuscript again.

There is no harm in reading it.

That’s what I tell myself as I carefully lift the book as though it were buried treasure.

I can’t think straight with the bones in my eyeline, so I cover them back up with the loose floorboards, then cover the floor with the sheepskin rug. What I need now is coffee. I don’t have any milk so it’ll have to be black. Most of the cupboards are empty, but I find some pods that are still in date and—with a little jiggery-pokery—figure out how to use the machine. Then I settle down on the couch and start reading.

It is 3:00A.M.when I read the final page.

I have barely moved from the sofa except to feed the dog his dinner and feed myself—the entire packet of milk chocolate digestives I shoved in my jacket pocket earlier. I stopped reading only to lock the door with the key I found on the desk, and to light the wood-burning stove—Sandy was right, this place does get chilly once the sun goes down. I’m grateful to whoever left the pretty box of matches with a robin on the front for me to find. The crackling fire, Columbo’s gentle snores, and the sound of the sea outside combine to make a soothing soundtrack for my tired, befuddled brain. I lean back and close my eyes, just for a moment, my mind too restless to entertain the possibility of sleep. I’m still trying to process what I just read, but it’s undoubtedly one of the best books I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading, and nobody else even knows it exists.

The only question now is what to do with it.

DEFINITELY MAYBE

One Week Before She Disappeared

ABBY

Trapped. That’s what I am. The woman I have come to speak to calls me by my maiden name, and the sound of it surprises me. As though it is something I have forgotten. At work, I am a different version of myself—someone confident and well respected—but at home, I am justthe wife. It’s like I am playing a role I didn’t audition for, but nobody tells you that the script of your life sometimes changes when you say “I do.”

I feel like I lost part of myself when I got married.

As though once he had me, he didn’t want me anymore.

It’s as if I’m invisible.

I’ve always been a private person. I know a lot of people believe in counseling and that talking to therapistshelps, but I’ve never been one to share my problems. Until now. The woman I’ve made an appointment to speak to doesn’t look like a therapist. She has long blond hair and is dressed in black, as though she might be off to a funeral once she has finished listening to me. I don’t know if I can tell her the truth, but I’m so tired of pretending. Shelookslike someone you can trust, and shesoundskind, patiently waiting for me to tell her why I am here.

“Take your time,” says the woman in black.

Then she checks her watch.

It’s okay. I’m just as good at pretending not to be offended as I am at pretending to be fine. I take in my surroundings. This is not a nice-looking office. There is no stylish furniture or calming paintings on the wall. It is a place that has never seen better days.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure where to start,” I tell her.

“It’s okay.” She smiles and leans forward, tilting her head so that her long blond hair falls over her shoulder. “I’m here to listen whenever you feel ready.” The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and I wonder if listening to other people’s problems makes her feel better about her own. “Maybe start at the beginning,” she suggests.

Which seems wrong because this feels like the end.

We are not the same people we were when we met.

I think you’re in my seat.

Those were the first words my husband ever said to me.

I wonder what will be the last.

“I think you’re in my seat,” said an unfriendly voice.

I looked up from my book and saw a man staring down at me. He was a little older than I am. Attractive, but not in an obvious way, with dark hair and intense eyes. He was in good shape, well enough dressed, and wore the expression of a man who knew what he wanted from the world and how to get it.

“I don’t think so,” I replied and returned to my novel.