Read the 1st half of Chapter 4
She rang up the last customer, barely aware of the line thinning, and told Janice—her favorite colleague—she was taking her first break of the day. Janice, with her deep smoker’s voice and thick Maine accent, just said, “Take your time.” The kindness in her eyes nearly undid her. For a split second, all she could picture was that poor girl, her parents… grandparents about Janice’s age. What had she seen? What was going on? Missing kids didn’t happen in Maine—and not next door.
She shoved through the door. She needed a cigarette. Normally, lighting up came with a flash of self-consciousness—how old-fashioned she looked smoking real cigarettes when everyone else her age had switched to vapes. Not today. Her hands trembled as she yanked open the car door, dropped into the driver’s seat, and slammed it shut hard enough to make the glass rattle.
She fumbled with the lighter, nearly dropping it twice before the flame caught. The first drag burned her throat, but the nicotine barely touched the quake in her hands. Her eyes kept darting to the side mirror, scanning the lot. A pickup idled at the far end—windows tinted, engine running. Was it there before? She couldn’t remember.
Her phone buzzed in her lap. A news alert lit up the screen: Authorities urge the public to come forward with any sightings. Beneath it, the same photo of the girl—Julia—grinning in that oversized soccer jersey.
Her pulse hammered. The sedan she’d seen that morning, the way Julia’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes… She should call the police. She should. But the thought of getting involved made her stomach clench. What if she was wrong?
She took another drag, holding the smoke in her lungs until it hurt, trying to steady herself. Her hands still wouldn’t stop shaking. The sun had shifted since she went on break, throwing sharp light across the dashboard. It made every speck of dust, every crumb, stand out like she’d never seen them before.
Across the lot, a pickup idled. She noticed it only because it wasn’t there a minute ago—or maybe it was, and she just hadn’t been paying attention. The engine’s low rumble hummed under the usual small-town quiet.
She told herself not to stare, not to read into it. But the thought of Julia’s face on that news alert wouldn’t let go. The cigarette burned low between her fingers. She crushed it in the ashtray, grabbed her phone, and opened the alert again, as if staring at the photo might give her some kind of answer.
Nothing. Just the same too-big soccer jersey, the same loose hair, the same smile that now seemed… wrong.
A breeze pushed through the open window, carrying the faint smell of fryer oil from the takeout place across the street. Normally it would make her stomach growl. Now it just turned her queasy.
She flicked through the alert again, reading details she’d already memorized—last seen that morning, believed to be in danger, any information, call the Cape Elizabeth Police Department. She stared at the number for a long moment, thumb hovering, then dropped the phone into the cup holder. Calling meant explaining why she thought she’d seen Julia. It meant explaining why she hadn’t said something sooner.
Movement in the lot caught her eye. The pickup’s engine went quiet. A man climbed out—tall, ball cap pulled low—and headed toward the convenience store entrance without looking her way. She told herself it was nothing. Just a guy getting a sandwich. Still, she couldn’t shake the urge to lock her doors.
She did.
The man disappeared into the store without so much as a glance in her direction. A minute later, he came out with a paper bag and a soda, climbed into the truck, and drove off.
Her heart rate eased, but the tension stayed coiled somewhere deep in her chest. She finished her cigarette, ground it out, and went back inside. Janice didn’t ask any questions—just gave her a knowing look and slid a customer her way.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of small talk and scanning barcodes. She smiled when she was supposed to, laughed when something was mildly funny, and counted the minutes until she could clock out. Every so often, the photo of Julia flickered through her mind, like a song stuck on repeat. But she said nothing. Did nothing.
By the time she pulled into the trailer park, the sky had gone that bruised purple of late summer evenings. The metal steps creaked under her weight as she climbed them. Inside, the air was close and still, carrying the faint scent of the morning’s burnt toast. She dropped her purse on the counter, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the middle of the narrow living room, listening to the hum of the refrigerator.
She turned on the TV for background noise, but the voices felt too loud, too cheery. She switched it off, leaving only the faint buzz of the ceiling fan. Through the thin walls, she could hear her neighbor’s dog barking at nothing.
Caitlyn sank onto the couch, staring at her phone on the coffee table. The news alert was still open, Julia’s face smiling back at her. She reached for it, then stopped.
It wasn’t her problem.
Still, she left the phone face-up, unable to turn the screen away.
Caitlyn woke to the sharp buzz of her phone vibrating against the nightstand, its sound slicing through the heavy, dreamless sleep she’d sunk into. Her head felt thick, her tongue dry. Without opening her eyes all the way, she fumbled for the phone, certain it was Josh or Emma, wondering if she was headed to Beals—the local hangout where she was something of a regular.
She swiped to answer. “Not going out tonight,” she mumbled, her voice flat.
“Caitlyn.”
Her eyes snapped open. Not Josh. Not Emma. The voice was deep, steady, carrying a weight that made her pulse tighten.
Noah.
“I need to see you,” he said.
She should say no. She should hang up. Not only was he older, but he was married.
They’d met at Beals weeks ago. He’d walked in like someone who’d taken a wrong turn from another life—button-down shirt crisp, dark wool coat slung over one broad shoulder. His clean-shaven jaw and easy, deliberate movements made him stand out in the haze of neon lights and beer-stained tables. She’d felt his presence before he even reached the bar.
That first night blurred together—too many Long Island Iced Teas on her part, too much heat in the way his eyes stayed on her, and yes…
Now, his voice in her ear pulled her straight back to that night.
“Where?” she asked before she could stop herself.
There was a pause, like he was weighing whether to tell her. “Your place. Twenty-Five”
The line went dead.
She stared at the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen, wondering if she should call him back, tell him not to bother. Instead, she pushed herself off her soft worn couch. The air in her trailer was cool against her bare skin, her head still fogged from sleep. She hated how quickly she’d moved—how little it had taken. If her friends had called, she would’ve stayed put. So why did this one man make her pulse race? Pushing the doubt aside, she hurried to straighten the four hundred and eighty square feet she called home.
Perfectly Imperfect 