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“Check my back pocket,” I tell him.
I’m still face down on the ground. He pats around my lower body, pulling out my cell phone.
“This yours?” he asks me.
“Yes. If you let me unlock it, you’ll be able to hear everything that happened.”
“What are you talking about?” Danielle says, angrily.
Being a crime writer, albeit unpublished, does have its advantages. I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes in the past couple of weeks, but I’ve kept a few tricks up my sleeve. Just as I did that night I met Marley at the diner, I started recording on my phone after I disconnected the call with 911.
I wanted to ensure that if whoever was behind this confessed, I’d have it on tape.
The officer uncuffs me long enough to unlock my phone. The second officer watches me closely, his hand on his service weapon just in case. The app is still running; all I have to do is hit the playback button to listen to everything Danielle said in the past ten minutes.
When she hears her voice on the recording, she closes her eyes, resting her forehead against the cement. It’s all over now, and she knows it. Warm tears swell as it sinks in, I’ve finally broken free from the black hearts and my tormentor.
The world will soon learn Danielle was behind the copycat crimes for which she tried to frame me. They’ll hear the truth about what happened to Brandon Davis and Rudy Raines, Jessica Wilder and Darryl Nease.
And most importantly, they’ll know she was the one who killed Layla all along.
FORTY-ONE
ONE YEAR LATER
I close my eyes and try to breathe.
My stomach is a bundle of nerves, heat climbing the back of my neck. Within the cramped confines of the bathroom stall, I try to escape into my mind.You can do this, I tell myself.You’ve already done it. But it doesn’t matter how much has changed in the past year, feelings of insecurity plague me.
Someone raps against the stall door.
“Becca, are you in there?” Crystal asks. “They need you up front. It’s about to start.”
“Coming,” I say, keeping my voice level. I count to ten, try to take control of my nerves.This is what you wanted more than anything, I tell myself.
When I open the stall door, she’s standing there, waiting for me.
“It’s going to be great,” she says. My friendship with Crystal has been tested more than most, and she’s still here. That’s a victory within itself. Once she found out what happened, she came rushing back into my life, and she’s been by my side ever since.
She pushes open the bathroom door and we enter the main area of the store. Shelves with books line either side of us,showing the names of authors I’ve always admired. As I walk through the corridors, I can’t help thinking about everything that’s brought me to this point.
My love of reading and writing, which started when I was in middle school, the way I was able to escape into fictional stories when the hardships of adolescence became too difficult. And then, in the blink of an eye, it seemed, I was grown, a student at WU embarking on real friendships, Crystal and Layla at my side.
The open doors to the conference room provide a glimpse of the audience inside. Rows upon rows of readers ready to fire off questions about the book. About what happened. I spot my mother sitting in the front row. A few seats down, I spy April and Victoria playfully gossiping as they wait for the event to begin. The sight is overwhelming, and I take a step backward.
“Don’t be nervous.” Crystal grabs my shoulder, keeping my balance. “Everyone loves you.”
Everyone being the loyal readership we’ve gained in the past year, all thanks to the nonfiction release,How a Fake Murder Caught a Real Killer: A Tale of Grief and Obsessionby Becca Walsh and Marley Theroux. I focus on the banner at the front of the room which features the book cover I dreamed about for so long. It’s shades of black and red and navy blue, the title written in white, bright and bold.
“Becca?”
I turn to see one of the bookstore attendants approaching, clipboard in hand. “The moderator is going to speak for about ten minutes before we get started. Marley’s waiting in another room. Would you like to join her?”
I flit my eyes to Crystal once more. She’s nodding and smiling. “Good luck,” she says, before entering the conference room.
I follow the attendant through the back of the bookstore, trying to keep my heart from beating too fast. She opens anondescript door. Inside, Marley is sitting in a foldable chair, her feet propped onto a table.
“I wondered if you’d gotten lost,” she says. “You look like a nervous wreck.”