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TWELVE

My phone starts ringing before nine o’clock in the morning. The auto repairman has arrived to deliver my car. I stumble down the stairs, half-awake, wearing an oversized hoodie, pajama pants, and fluffy slippers.

The man is blocking the street, leaning against his tow truck, scrolling on his phone.

“You Miss Walsh?” he asks when he sees me approach.

“That’s me,” I say, pulling out my checkbook. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

He nods. “It’ll be two hundred,” he says.

My arms fall to my sides. “The receptionist said one fifty on the phone.”

“That’s for a midday drop-off,” he says. “It’s before noon.”

“Of course,” I say. I can’t give him attitude because the tire has already been fixed, and I never would have been able to do it myself. I write him the check, and hand it over, trying not to think about the extra fifty that will be leaving my bank account.

As I’m climbing the stairs to my apartment, my phone starts ringing again. My mother.

“Two phone calls in two weeks,” I say. “What did I do to get so lucky?”

“Can’t I check in on my daughter?”

“Sure,” I say, “although not much has changed since the last time we talked.”

“We never really got to finish our conversation,” she says. “It’s that time of year, you know.”

Of course, I know. Every winter for the past ten years, she hasn’t let me forget. Mom had big plans for me, and I wasted them when I decided to drop out.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her. “I’ve moved on.”

“Have you though?” she says. “Becca, really. What are you doing with your life? Waiting tables. Trying to become a writer.”

“Yes, the second part is what I’m doing with my life,” I say. “The first part just pays the bills.”

I think of the extra fifty bucks I just spent on my car. That’s at least two or three more tables I’ll have to kiss up to. It’s not an ideal living, but it’s my only option at this point. Everything else I’ve tried I’ve either hated or has been ruined for me by the black hearts.

“I’m your mother,” she says. “It’s my job to have the hard conversations with you. Thirty has come and gone, and I think it’s time you do something with your life. You could try working with another school system.”

“No, Mom.”

My mind goes back to my assistant position at the school. I remember being crouched down in the toilet stall, crying into my hands like I was a hormonal teenager. I wasn’t meant to work there, and returning will only increase the likelihood of me losing my mind.

“Maybe you could go back to school then,” she says. “How many credits would it take you to finish your degree? A year’s worth of classes at most.”

“And then what will I do?” I ask her. “A creative writing degree won’t guarantee me a book deal. I can keep doing what I’m doing now and get there faster.”

“What if you never get there? It’s a hard business, Becca. If you don’t become a writer, will you just be a waitress the rest of your life? At some point you’re going to have to pick a path and commit to it.”

She makes it sound like I’m self-sabotaging, when that’s not the case.

I’d like to find a career that makes me happy.

I was happy about the idea of studying massage therapy, until the black hearts came along and ruined that opportunity for me.

And now they’re back. Two hearts in a week, I think with a shudder.

“While I have you on the phone,” I say to my mother, “has anything strange been happening at the house?”

“Strange? What do you mean?”

“It’s been so long since I visited,” I say, and yet I can still remember seeing that heart carved into the tree trunk in my backyard, the black paint staining the bark. Maybe there have been other signs recently I’ve missed, other messages I haven’t found.

“Yes,” my mother says, her stern tone bringing me back to the present. “It has been a long time.”

“I’ve been getting these random notes. I was only wondering if anything showed up at the house.”

“What kind of notes?” she asks, her voice filled with skepticism.

“It’s hard to explain,” I tell her, careful not to divulge too much information. My mother already thinks I’m a failure; I don’t need her thinking I’m crazy, too.

“You know what?” She pauses, and I catch myself holding my breath. Maybe I’m right, and weird messages have been arriving at my childhood home, too. My mother exhales. “I think you’re trying to change the subject, just like you always do when I corner you about your future.”

“Mom—”

“No, Becca. You listen to me. No one is sending you strange notes. No one is sabotaging your future, except for you!”

The sound of screeching tires grabs my attention. A car horn blares, then another. The world outside my window sounds as frustrated as I feel during this conversation.

“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you, Mom,” I say.

“Not a disappointment, darling,” she says, and her voice sounds weaker, like she’s giving up. “Just wasted potential.”

I quickly come up with an excuse to get off the phone and hop in the shower. As the water splashes against my skin, I try to wash away my mother’s words, the sense of the failure that reeks off me like a bad smell.

Hopping into a clean pair of sweats, I pull my hair into a high bun and slip on some ChapStick. I have an afternoon shift at the restaurant, but a few errands that need to be run before then, now that my car is working again.

I rush downstairs, hurrying to not be late for another shift, when I’m astounded by the crowds standing on the street.

There are several police cars blocking the road, and my car too. Looks like I won’t be going anywhere soon. Groups of people have gathered. I notice the man who dropped off my car is still there, speaking to one of the officers. His gruff demeanor is gone, replaced with skin white as a sheet.

“Becca!”

A few steps away, I see Crystal. She waves me over.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at work.”

“I walked across the street for some coffee before my first client meeting,” she says. “Now this happened, and I’m stuck.”

“What happened?” I ask, looking at the crowds.

“Someone was hit by a car.”

“Hit?”

“Yes. This woman was crossing the street and a car just plowed into her. There were a lot of people standing around who saw the whole thing.”

“My goodness, is she okay?”

“I think she’s going to be,” she says. She points ahead, and I see a woman sitting in the back of an ambulance. She’s sitting upright, holding an ice pack to her head while an EMT looks at her legs. The woman is bruised up, but at least she’s alive.

“I can’t believe you didn’t hear the commotion,” Crystal says.

Thinking back, I remember the sounds of screeching tires and honking horns. I was so frustrated with the conversation with Mom I didn’t think to look out the window. Everything else must have happened when I was in the shower.

“What about the driver?” I ask.

“That’s the worst part,” Crystal says. “They just took off. I’m guessing that’s why there are so many police. They’re probably trying to gather as many statements as possible. Hopefully they’ll catch the bastard.”

“A hit-and-run,” I say, half to myself. Just like in Victoria’s story from the last Mystery Maidens meeting.

“The holidays bring out the crazy in people,” Crystal says. “You might be onto something, staying home all the time.”

“It’s definitely safer.” As the words leave my lips, a flash of the black hearts enters my mind, and I wonder if that’s true.

“At this rate, I think I’ll be better walking a few blocks and getting an Uber,” she says, walking away from the crowd. “Don’t wait up for me.”

I wave goodbye, thinking of how quickly Crystal abandoned her plan for safety.

She might talk about the holidays bringing the crazy out in people, but she doesn’t really believe it.

She’s never lived her life in fear, even when most people in her position would have.

She’s not like me, constantly looking over her shoulder for the next threat.

As I turn to walk inside, something catches my eye.

A black heart sticker is plastered onto the railing outside my building.

I run my hands over the paper, making sure it’s real, not just some figment of my imagination.

The metal railing is cold beneath my fingers, the sticker wrapped tightly around it.

The crowds are still staring ahead at the maelstrom of police cars and emergency responders, while I have my own crisis right in front of me.

Another black heart. It must mean something.

I know it wasn’t here this morning; I would have seen it when I came downstairs to pay the car repairman.

This means someone must have left it after I went back in, right around the time that pedestrian was struck by a passing vehicle.

I look over my shoulder, searching for a familiar face, but find nothing. Countless faces, all of them ignoring me, and yet one of them must be here because of me. One of them must have left this message.

Three hearts in the past two weeks.

Two of them found at scenes that were ripped directly from the Mystery Maidens’ stories.

Something is happening, and it appears the target for everything is me.