Thrillers: Because Apparently My Anxiety Needs a Hobby

I recently started reading another thriller. It’s very good so far… but it has already made me a nervous wreck. As if I needed help in that department. My anxiety does a fine job all on its own, thank you very much.

The book opens with a woman going out for an evening jog. She and her husband recently moved to a small town a few months ago. As she runs, she reflects on memories and thinks about the art exhibit she’s attending later that night at the town gallery.

So far, normal.

But here’s where my editor brain and general common sense start twitching. She goes jogging with no phone, no ID… just her house keys. Who does this?

Anyway, she returns home after the run, a little winded, probably feeling accomplished, ready to shower and get ready for the exhibit. She goes to unlock the door… and the key doesn’t work.

Odd.

She knocks, assuming her husband will answer.

He doesn’t.

Instead, another woman opens the door.

And here’s where things get delightfully insane. The woman looks like her. Sounds like her. And—just to make it extra creepy—is wearing the exact black velvet dress the jogger planned to wear that night.

Then the woman calmly says her name. The same name as our main character. Naturally, the husband appears at the door next… and doesn’t recognize the jogger at all. He believes the woman standing beside him is his wife.

Yikes.

This sounds crazy. And messy. And exactly the kind of thriller rabbit hole I’m about to dive into.

Stay tuned. I have a feeling this one is going to make my blood pressure spike.