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“This Layla girl. It’s not a story you made up. What happened to her was real.”
For so long, I’ve used my writing to cope with my trauma, but now the lines between fiction and real life are blurring. The idea of Layla’s case being pulled into Marley’s web turns my stomach, but there’s not much I can do to back out now. I readily told her about everything. Except the black hearts. Shame, hot and twisted, riles inside, like a serpent fighting to get out. I should have known better than to use Layla’s tragedy in a story. She deserved more than that.
“We were best friends. College roommates,” I explain. “What happened to her was a decade ago. I’ve been struggling to come up with new story ideas, ever since I finished writingNight Beat. I only wrote about what happened because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
Marley reaches her arm across the table, resting her hand on mine. I pull away.
“A lot of writers do that, you know. Use personal trauma. It can be cathartic really,” she says, her voice gentle and soothing. “You don’t have to feel guilty for that.”
“Whoever left this article at the bridge is judging me for it,” I say. “This is their way of letting me know they’re on to me just like I’m on to them.”
“That’s what intrigues me. What happened tonight proves we’re both right. Someone in the group is using stories as an inspiration to commit crimes, and we need to work together to find out which one it is.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
Marley leans forward again. “We need to go back to the police.”
“I already tried that.”
“I’ll go with you this time. We’ll bring them all our research. They can’t laugh the both of us away, not when we’re able to highlight every connection between these deaths and the stories that inspired them.”
“There isn’t enough to prove either one of our theories,” I say.
“Come by my place. I can show you all the information I’ve gathered so far. It would be nice to get some input from someone who knows these women better.” Her excitement deflates when she sees my uneasy expression. She starts over. “Or you can wait here, and I’ll bring my files to you, if that makes you more comfortable. Don’t worry, I’m not offended that you don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that?—”
“It’s smart,” she cuts me off. “I wouldn’t trust anyone either, until we figure out who is behind this.”
“I’m not going back to the police,” I say, clenching and unclenching my fists under the table. “Not after what happened tonight at the bridge.”
Her jaw clenches. “What do you mean?”
“Say that we’re right. Someone killed all three of these people and used the stories from our group as inspiration. Clearly, they also know about what happened to Layla and they’re using it against me. I’ve spent years distancing myself from what happened back then. I’m not going to go to the police andadmit that all this started when I wrote a story about my old roommate’s murder.”
“They won’t see it that way.”
“Won’t they?” I say. “Forget the first two murders. Look at all the strange things that have happened the past couple weeks. And now a message being left for me at the bridge. Whoever is doing this is focusing in on me.”
“Maybe that’s because they figured out you were onto them,” she says. “That’s the beauty of having me involved now. They probably haven’t realized that two of us are working together.”
“We should keep looking into this ourselves,” I say. “Telling the police about my past will only make them suspicious of one person in the group: me. They’ll think I’m involved because this new murder mirrors what happened to my roommate years ago.”
Marley opens her mouth but stops. She must understand there’s some truth behind my fears. The last thing we need is to give off the impression I’m a woman come unhinged by grief.
“What if another person dies?” she says, watching me closely for a reaction. “We can’t let that happen.”
“It won’t. We’ll keep an eye on the other three. Track them if we must,” I say. “I’m not against going to the police at some point, but I’d like to gather more information on our own first. Give them the name of a suspect so they don’t assume it’s me.”
“All you’re doing is wasting time,” she says, her stare fixed on the table in front of us. “It’s been years since the first two murders, which are still unsolved. The police aren’t going to get involved unless we bring all this to their attention.”
“You’re looking into all of this because it’s a good story,” I say. “For me, it’s personal. I have to be sure.”
Marley’s demeanor changes quickly. Her light-hearted expression is gone, replaced with something angry and bitter.She grips the paper napkin on the table, wadding the paper with her fist. It’s obvious she isn’t used to hearing the word No.
“Let’s meet at Mario’s tomorrow,” I say, trying to salvage the conversation. “My shift doesn’t start until four o’clock. I’ll come in early, and we can go over everything then.”
“It’s a date.” She raises her hand, signaling to the waitress we’re ready for the check. She still seems angry, but at least she’s willing to meet with me again.