Page 14

THIRTEEN

Throughout my shift, my mind keeps returning to the similarities between the Mystery Maidens stories and the events of the past week.

One of the biggest writing rules is that coincidences happen in life, not in fiction.

However, the timing of these two incidents—my slashed tires and the hit-and-run on my street this morning, followed by the presence of more black hearts—makes me wonder if there isn’t something larger at play.

The hearts have been out of my life for more than a year.

Why start reappearing now? Nothing in my life has changed.

“Becca!” Nikki shouts, her screeching voice snapping me back to reality. “Your order is up.”

Several plates of food sit beneath heat lamps on the food line. The blazing ceramic stings my fingertips as I move them onto a large tray.

And why did both things happen to me? My tires slashed. A hit-and-run on my street.

“Don’t forget your side dishes,” Nikki says, standing uncomfortably close. In the kitchen, it’s all jutting elbows and dancing around co-workers, but feeling the heat of Nikki’s breath on my neck makes me want to scream.

“Getting them,” I say, adding ramekins of Parmesan cheese and marinara sauce to the overloaded platter.

If someone is trying to mess with me, acting out the events from our stories, it would have to be one of the other Mystery Maidens, wouldn’t it?

They’re the only ones with access to our stories, the only ones who could draw such a close connection between reality and fiction.

But why would one of them want to target me?

The black hearts have been appearing for the past decade.

Could one of the group members have been sending them all this time?

“Becca,” Nikki says. “You just got seated again at?—”

“Chill, Nikki!” I shout, hefting the tray over my shoulder. “Let me get out of this godforsaken kitchen. Please.”

I’m irritated, not just by Nikki’s micromanaging, but by this bizarre riddle that’s stuck in my mind. Coincidences are rare in real life, too. It’s difficult for me to wrap my mind around the fact that two crimes just happened to take place within days of having read about them in stories.

I wipe the thoughts from my mind, and I’m all smiles by the time I arrive at my table.

I pass out the heavy pasta bowls—“Be careful, it’s hot!

” I warn—and check that my customers are satisfied.

They should be my last party of the night.

It’s near closing time, and what I want more than anything is to go home and rest.

As I’m turning to head back to the kitchen, I spot Nikki watching me from across the room. Just then, I remember her barking order that I’d been sat another table. My annoyance subsides when I see it’s only Chaz, sitting at one of the high tops by the bar.

“I was about to be annoyed someone came in right before closing,” I say, once I make my way over. “Then I saw it was you.”

“Not here to make your job harder,” he says. “Just want to kill time and get a meal.”

He orders his usual again. I drift to the back of the restaurant to ring it up in the computer. As I’m tapping into the screen, an idea enters my head.

Another complaint in crime fiction is that the protagonist doesn’t act like a reasonable person in their situation would. They don’t call for help. They don’t involve the police. They run back inside the house.

I look back at Chaz, a police officer. A person who could possibly help with the black hearts situation has been delivered straight to me.

I’ve not had the best relationship with cops in the past, but Chaz knows me on a personal level, as much as anyone knows me, that is.

Maybe I should tell him about what’s been happening.

My party table exits right around the time Chaz’s food order is ready. By now, the restaurant is near empty, only a few customers scattered around the room finishing their meals. I carry Chaz’s dinner over and sit across from him.

“Can you talk and eat at the same time?” I ask.

“Multitasking is my superpower,” he says, taking another swig of beer. “Something bothering you, or just bored?”

“Both.” I look around the lonely restaurant. Nikki is busy in the back, inspecting each table to make sure the condiments are stocked, and the floors are swept. The hostess at the front has just switched the sign from Open to Closed. “There is something that’s been bugging me. A mystery of sorts.”

“Are you needing help with one of your stories?”

“It’s not something I’m writing,” I say. “Someone is messing with me, and I wanted to get your thoughts.”

He’s already aware that someone slashed my tires.

His original theory was that some neighborhood kids were to blame.

I’d thought as much, too, until I found the black heart.

And now something else happened outside my apartment this morning.

Both events were pulled from Mystery Maidens stories.

I’m beginning to wonder if that is intended, and that’s exactly what I tell him.

“It’s an interesting theory,” he says, when I finish. “But I’m not convinced someone is out to get you.”

“You don’t believe me,” I say, dejected.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” he says. “But we need proof. Not speculation.”

“This is all I have. Someone deliberately slashed my tires, like in the story. This morning, someone was run over in a hit-and-run. Just like the other story from group.”

“Were those the only two stories your group read lately?”

“No,” I say hesitantly. There was Rosebud . Some other random stories. The first and second parts of The Mistake . “Still, don’t you think it’s weird?”

“I do. In a déjà vu type of way.”

“Déjà vu, like it’s not real.”

“I’m not saying that. Haven’t you ever come across a new word in a book or on television, and next thing you know, this word you never knew existed seems to be everywhere?”

“Sure, but?—”

“Maybe these two incidents stood out in your mind for whatever reason. It makes it easier for the other stuff to catch your attention. If you hadn’t just read about a vandalized car or a hit-and-run with your writing group, would you still think you’re being targeted? Or would you chuck it up to bad luck?”

“I… I don’t know.” The events of the past week aren’t enough.

He needs more. “Actually, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.

For years now, I’ve been getting these strange messages.

Little notes left for me at work and where I live, and I know they’re from the same person because they always come with a black heart. ”

“A heart. Like a charm?”

“No. It’s a drawing, usually on the outside of whatever note they’ve left.” I pause. “I found a black heart beside my tire, and on a railing near the hit-and-run.”

“So, you’re telling me someone has been sending you messages for years, and you’re just now going to the police?”

“No, I went once before,” I say, cringing at the memory. “They didn’t do anything about it then either. But this is different. Before, it was only messages. Now, they’re leaving them at the scenes of crimes. I just thought maybe you could look into it.”

“Problem is, where would I even start? You have a hunch. An inkling. That might get the ball rolling in one of your little crime books, but in a real investigation, we need more than that.”

“My little crime books.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You have this job too long, you turn cynical.

Let me give you an example. A few years back, this woman said her ex-boyfriend was stalking her.

Showing up at work. Leaving messages at her apartment.

She couldn’t ever prove it, but all these weird things kept happening to her and she was sure they were all linked back to him. ”

“And?”

“We couldn’t do anything about it. There was never any proof.”

“What about a restraining order?”

“She took one out. She didn’t see him anymore, but that didn’t stop the letters from coming. She could never prove it was him.”

“What happened?”

“Lucky for her, she got a new job and relocated. I told her to reach out if her problems persisted, but they never did. I guess she was no longer an interesting target from the other side of the country. It all worked out.”

“Yeah.” All she had to do was uproot her entire life to get the guy to stop. “What about the women where it doesn’t work out? They feel threatened and targeted, but no crime is ever committed. Sometimes a person’s first crime is assault or worse.”

“That’s a gray area in the law. Sometimes we can see the bad guys from a mile away, but we still have to wait for them to do something to get involved.”

Something has happened, I think. Two separate crimes. I just have no way of proving they’re linked to me.

“Remain vigilant,” Chaz continues. “Maybe you’re right and someone is trying to mess with you. Or maybe it’s just a weird coincidence. You really think one of your writing buddies is out to get you?”

In reality, I can’t picture any of them coming after me, but there’s no one else with access to our stories. Maybe Marley. She’s the newest member, and I’ve felt defensive around her since the first time I saw her.

“The black hearts have been part of my life for so long, and now they’re connected to the stories from group,” I say. “That must be significant.”

“These black hearts. How long have you been getting them?”

“Ten years.”

Admitting the timeline out loud seems to disprove Marley as the stalking suspect. She would have been a child when I received the first black heart. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about her, and I didn’t start making connections until after she joined the group.

“And they couldn’t be from an ex-boyfriend or something? Some friend you wronged?”

My cheeks flush with shame, and I stare into my lap. It’s true that I have no clue who is sending the black hearts, but there’s an obvious reason why they’re being sent, and I can’t tell Chaz that. I can’t tell anyone. I have to keep it locked away with my treasure trove of secrets.

His radio blurts, and Chaz looks away. “I gotta take this. I don’t feel like I helped a lot.”

“It’s okay. You’re just being honest.” That familiar feeling of defeat returns. Just like last time, there wasn’t enough information for me to be believed.

“Becca!”

Across the restaurant, Nikki is waving to get my attention, a clipboard in her hand, no doubt ready to dish out the evening’s side work.

“Looks like duty calls for me, too,” I say.

“You should still come by the station and report that someone vandalized your car. If we are able to find out who did it, at least we’ll have a paper trail.”

“Sure.”

Begrudgingly, I walk in the direction of Nikki, ready to complete my laundry list of tasks before ending tonight’s shift. Chaz has given me a lot to think about, but one thing is clear:

I’m in this by myself.