The Perfect Face Read online

  THE PERFECT FACE

  A Psychological Thriller

  C.G. TWILES

  Copyright © 2022 by C.G. Twiles

  All rights reserved.

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

  Cover design by JS Designs Cover Art

  Visit CGTwiles.com for more information about the author and her books.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Ruby

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Ruby

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Ruby

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Ruby

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Ruby

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Ruby

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Glenda

  More Thrillers by C.G. Twiles

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  RUBY

  Mom says when she was pregnant with me, she prayed every single day for one thing: For God to make me beautiful.

  Where Mom and I come from, smarts or being talented may or may not get you anywhere. But a beautiful girl can do anything, go anywhere, and be anyone. That’s what my mom says anyway. So, she wasn’t too surprised when the first thing someone (a nurse at the hospital) said about me was “What a beautiful baby.”

  After that, it got routine. Mom said when she took me out in the stroller, she could hardly walk ten feet before someone (always a woman) would stop her and say, “That’s the most beautiful baby.” But Mom didn’t have the money to move to a place like New York or Chicago, where beautiful babies can earn money modeling. She took pictures of me and sent them to agencies but never heard back.

  She tried to save up money so we could move to a place like that but she says when she told my father her plans (he didn’t have much to do with us but lived only one town away), he threatened to bring her to court if she left the state. So, she tried other ways of getting me attention.

  When I was about seven, she made a social media account for me and it started to get a lot of followers but Mom couldn’t figure out how to make money off it, though I did get a few free t-shirts and things. Then Dad said being online would make perverts want to kidnap me, so she took it down, because Dad could be mean and she was scared of him.

  So, we were stuck here, in this dead-end town.

  When I was 11, my dad died in a car accident. It was really sad because when we were together, he was nice to me, and I wish I’d gotten to know him better. But also it probably wasn’t as sad as it would be for someone who saw their father more than a few times a year.

  Feeling like she was finally free to get me noticed, Mom started to pray again. “God,” she said, “when I asked for a beautiful baby, you were nice enough to give me my Ruby (my name is Karolina Ruby, but my mom only ever calls me Ruby, because she says I shine like a ruby). I hate to come to you again so soon. But my baby is almost grown up and these looks from heaven you gave her aren’t doing much for us. I’m still bartending, serving drunks all day, fighting off scum.

  Ruby gets complimented all the time, but compliments don’t pay the rent. And I want to do more than pay rent. I want to buy us a nice house, a car that doesn’t break down all the time, and have money so Ruby can go to a good college one day and get out of here forever.

  Please God, send us a way for Ruby to be seen by the world. Why would you make such a gorgeous piece of art no one can see? At least no one who’s important?”

  A couple of weeks later, Mom’s friend sent her an ad she’d seen online. “Looking for The Perfect Face,” it said. The winner was promised a modeling contract with an agency it didn’t name.

  There were categories for girls, teens, and adults. I had just turned 12, so I’d enter the 10-12 category, which was the youngest one.

  My mom brought me out to a field where wild flowers were blooming because it was spring, and took a ton of photos. She made me change outfits tons of times. She put a dab of pink lip gloss on me, but that was it, because she wanted me to look natural and like my own age. Mom had done these little photoshoots before, so I kind of knew what I was doing.

  I skipped in the field. I held flowers to my face. I climbed trees. I could look all girlish or I could look more adult. I could be carefree or look like I’m thinking deep thoughts. And I liked being in front of the camera. It felt like my friend.

  Despite taking hundreds, maybe thousands, of pictures that day, the one Mom chose to send to the contest was the very last one of the day. It was late afternoon, and I was tired and hungry. We must have been there six hours, easy. She said, “Okay, Ruby, we got enough. Let’s go get something to eat at Maxie’s.” I kind of looked at her and smiled a little because I was thinking of a big, juicy hamburger with lots of pickles and a side order of curly fries and a chocolate shake.

  Right then, her finger hit the shutter and snapped a picture of me. I wasn’t even trying to pose. It was only me thinking of food. That’s the photo she picked to send into the contest.

  A week later, she got a call. Out of thousands of girls my age, I’d been chosen to fly to New York. There, I was put into a room with more girls my age. All of them were so pretty. I’d always felt like the prettiest girl anywhere I went, but not now. One by one, we were called into another room, where a woman took more pictures. Me and Mom were put up at a really fancy, old-fashioned hotel for another week.

  Then we got another call.

  I’d won “The Perfect Face” contest for my age group!

  I’d thought my mom would be so happy. This was everything she ever wanted for me. I’d probably be on the covers of all the glamor magazines. I’d wear fashionable clothes on the runways, travel to places like Paris and Milan, places I’d heard about. And Mom would get to come with me because I was too young to travel alone.

  But instead of jumping up and down, she grew very quiet. For the next few days, she seemed distracted and uncertain. I kept asking her what was wrong, what was happening, where did we go next, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. It was really frustrating and confusing.

  “Please, Mom,” I said. “I want to be a famous model. I want us to be rich. Why aren’t you happy?”

  “Honey, you don’t understand,” she said, quietly. “This isn’t exactly what I thought it was.”

  She told me how we would be flown to a special island. A man owned the island, and he was very, very rich. Richer than we could even imagine. And this man knew everyone—movie stars, scientists, billionaires, even presidents. There, Mom would be given enough money that we wouldn’t ever have to worry about money ever again. She’d also have to sign some papers saying she would never, ever say where she had been, or what she had seen or heard. And that went for me, too. If we did ever say anything to anyone, we’d be in a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble.

  “Who’s the man?” I asked her. “Does he own the modeling agency? Why can’t we say we met him?”

  Her eyes grew distant and she didn’t answer me.

  Later, a man and woman I’d never seen before came to the hotel. They were dressed really fancy. They ordered a huge ice cream sundae for me, which was delivered on a silver tray by another man in an outfit, and then the dressed-up man and woman brought my mom to the other room in our suite. I could hear them talking through the thick wooden door but couldn’t tell what they were saying.

  Soon after they left, my mom sat down next to me on the big, white, super comfy king-sized bed. She looked more relaxed than she had the past few days. More like herself.

  “Ruby,” she said, “this is our chance. We’re going to have enough money that we can buy a nice house on the beach, like we’ve always wanted. And we’d have enough that I could quit the bar and look for something better. And I’ve been told that your education will be paid for. We could send you to a good private school, and then a good college if you get the grades.”

  “That’s amazing!” I squealed.

  But then she grew kind of—well, I don’t know the word for it. It’s a big word. All I can say is my mom gets that look when she comes home from work and she’s bone-tired, and smells nasty like stale beer, and some dumb guy at the bar gave her a hard time. It’s a look I dread seeing on her, because it makes me feel so sad. Like I would do anything to erase that look and make her smile.

  “So then what’s wrong, Mom?”

  That’s when she held my hand. She squeezed it tight and said, “If we go to the man’s island, it will change our lives. But, baby,”—she sucked in her breath and looked right into my eyes—“you’re going to have to be very
brave.”

  The way she said it made my chest start to shake, like there were tears inside trying to not come out. Because I wanted that house on the beach and to go to a better school. And I really, really wanted, more than anything, for Mom to quit the bar.

  “I can be brave,” I said, though I didn’t feel brave right then.

  “And you’re going to have to be quiet. Very quiet about something you might want to talk about.”

  I felt my lower lip start to shake, because Mom always said that I should speak up if I felt something was wrong. If she wanted me to keep some kind of big secret, then it couldn’t be wrong. But my stomach felt like it was.

  “But why be quiet?” I asked.

  “Because this man is very powerful. He can help us. But he can also hurt us.” She put her hand under my chin. “We can’t tell anyone what will happen on his island.”

  “Will it be bad? What is it?” Mom was really starting to scare me.

  “Honey,” she said. “Ruby…”

  She stared out the window for what seemed a long time. Then she finally looked back at me.

  And she told me.

  Chapter Two

  The young girl across from Maddie made eye contact with her. She was a stunningly beautiful young lady—long colt legs, thick wheat-colored hair down to her waist, and even from across the aisle, Maddie could tell the girl had green eyes—a dark forest green. The girl looked 13, maybe 14. Maddie felt sorry for the girl. She must already be getting hassled by lecherous full-grown men, gossiped about by jealous girls.

  The woman sitting next to the girl was clearly not doing well at all. Poised at the woman’s mouth was one of the paper bags the ferry workers had handed out and her face was contorted and pallid. You hear about faces that turn green with nausea. Of course, that’s fiction. Sort of. She did look green.

  Maddie couldn’t blame her. Her own sick bag was tight in her fist, in case she needed it. Her stomach was a strong one, she’d never been seasick before, but she’d never been in waters this relentlessly heaving before. Up, down, up, down, up, down, with barely a second between. Not side to side. Straight up and down.

  Each plummet back down from the tip of a wave sent her stomach catapulting upwards, the feeling you’d get when your side of the ferris wheel drops. It’s not like it was even stormy out. The skies were blue and sunny, not a drop of rain to be had. Just the way the Aegean could be. History would tell you it had swallowed up countless ships and sailors. Hopefully, today it wouldn’t swallow up Maddie and all these tourists.

  Suddenly, the woman next to the coltish young girl bolted forward, staggering towards the bathroom sign. But Maddie knew she wasn’t going to make it. Why bother with that when everyone was puking right out here in the open? The woman crouched on her knees, the bag pressed up against her mouth.

  “Mom!” the young girl cried. The woman stayed on the steel beamed floor, vomiting into the bag as the ferry swung up, down, up, down, up, down.

  Maddie grasped one of the poles and managed to get closer to the woman. She didn’t know if the woman spoke English, but the young girl’s “Mom” had the ring of an American accent.

  “Ma’am,” Maddie said, thrusting out one arm. “Hold your wrist,” she said, demonstrating while keeping a hold on the pole. She couldn’t tell if the woman heard her. “With your thumb. Like this. Press down hard, right on the vein.” She was speaking loudly because the boat was slapping so loud and hard against the waves. “It’s an acupressure point. It helps.”

  The woman peered up from her bag, face ashen, with an expression hanging between Thank you and Go away. She appeared somewhere in her thirties, with a scraggly, pulled-back ponytail, locks the same wheat color as the young girl’s but without its sunshiny gloss.

  To be honest, if the girl hadn’t called the woman “Mom,” Maddie would have taken her for a family friend. Other than the same hair shade, there was no resemblance. The mother was as ordinary as the girl was extraordinary.

  But that was a bit unfair considering the woman was currently hugging the ferry floor, trying not to throw up again. Appearing to understand Maddie’s directive, the woman grimaced, using the thumb on the hand holding the sick bag to press down on her wrist. The young girl staggered over, then fell right down by her mother.

  “Woah!” Maddie called, reaching for the girl, but unable to grab hold as the boat free-fell then ricocheted up with a straight bounce off a wave. Maddie clung tighter to the pole with one arm and tried reaching out again, this time managing to grasp the girl’s skinny arm. “You okay?” she said, helping her up to the plastic, bright orange bench. “You speak English?”

  The girl seemed to nod but it was hard to tell with the slamming up, down, up, down motion of the boat, like it was being sling-shot between waves.

  “She’ll be okay,” Maddie said, because the girl looked so worried. “We’re almost there.”

  Then Maddie had to stop speaking as nausea was gathering momentum in her stomach, bile beginning to slosh around the back of her throat. She squeezed her wrist harder and stared determinedly at the pewter waves through the window on the lower deck (they’d all been ordered downstairs as the waves were slopping over the upper deck). Up, down, up, down.

  She noticed most people couldn’t even glance out of the windows, that seeing the waves would make them even more ill. They were desperately staring at the floor or holding their heads between their knees.

  But not Maddie. If she watched the waves, it helped keep the bile at bay, because she could imagine jumping off the ferry if it began to capsize. She’d grown up around the water and was a good swimmer. Realistically, she likely couldn’t survive in waves like this, but imagining she could was enough to keep her from puking.

  “How much longer?” the girl asked.

  “I think about half an hour.”

  “Oh my God!” she cried. “Mom won’t survive it.”

  “Sure she will. She’ll be fine once she’s off the boat.”

  The girl gave a weak, distressed smile, and Maddie stopped speaking, because that was only empowering the nausea threatening to have its way with her. She took pride in being one of the few on the boat who hadn’t vomited yet. In fact, it was more the sickly stench permeating the air than the bouncing of the boat that was giving her a queasy stomach.

  She noticed that the ferry workers, all young, sturdy-looking Greek men, hardly seemed aware of the choppy sea. One of them was even standing at the seating area’s opening, casually smoking a cigarette.

  Thirty or so minutes later, easily the longest thirty minutes of Maddie’s life, the boat docked and its sea-battered occupants stumbled out weak-kneed. Many immediately dropped to the dock, needing to be on the unmoving earth.

  Maddie didn’t want to intrude on the mother and daughter, who were slightly in front of her, holding onto each other, but she kept an eye on them. They headed to a bench, and the girl sat on it but the mother, like most others who’d disembarked, lay flat on the dock. As soon as Maddie stepped off the still undulating ferry boat, she felt fine.

  “You guys okay?” she asked them.

  The mother lay on her stomach, saying nothing, hands clawing at the dock.

  “Can I help you at all?” Maddie pressed.

  “Mmmmm,” the woman groaned.

  Maddie decided she better sit on the bench with the girl until the mother was better. It didn’t seem right to leave the girl in charge of the situation.

  “I can try to get you a taxi,” Maddie said to the girl. “Bring you to your hotel.”

  Maddie had only been on the island, Kyrie, for a few days, but had already figured out there was a drastic shortage of taxis. There was one taxi stand and the line at it was usually an hour long. There was some sort of law on the island that you couldn’t call or hail a taxi. You actually had to go to the stand and wait for one. Barbaric.