Page 16

FIFTEEN

The glass door to McCallie’s Pub is etched in frost; it looks like dozens of snowflakes are glued to the surface. There hasn’t been any snow but judging from the gray skies above and the cooling temperatures, winter will be making an early appearance.

Still, I’d rather stand out here, shaking, than enter.

I almost skipped out on tonight’s meeting entirely.

Since reading the news alert about the murdered WU student, I’ve done little more than hide in bed, thinking.

More details have been released, including an official identification.

Jessica Wilder is her name, only twenty years old.

She’d last been seen leaving a bar close to campus, and it’s believed she was killed while walking back to her dorm, her body left in a ditch—just like in The Mistake .

The similarities between the story I wrote and her death frighten me, and given the other strange incidents of the past week, I’m convinced there’s no coincidence.

In the past, I’ve only received the black hearts at random intervals, never connected to any other element of my life.

Now, there have been three hearts appear after incidents that mirror the groups’ stories.

Someone is acting out the crimes we wrote about, trying harder than ever to get to me, and it’s working.

My emotions are all over the place, my nerves rattled.

And the guilt. It weighs heavy on my chest, at times, making it difficult to breathe.

Because this time, the black hearts stalker isn’t only targeting me, but harming other people, too.

“Becca?” Marley is standing behind me, uncomfortably close. Layers of scarves are wrapped around her neck, and she’s wearing a wool coat the color of amethyst. “I thought that was you. What are you doing standing in the cold?”

Seeing her sends another chill rattling through me. I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the glass door, still trying to work up the nerve to enter. “I had a phone call,” I lie. “I was just about to go in.”

“Good,” she says, walking ahead. Her heavy perfume—floral and citrus, at odds with this somber winter evening—marks a trail between where I stand and McCallie’s entrance. “I thought I’d be late. Now, we can arrive together.”

A voice inside warns: You shouldn’t go in there at all .

It’s more than random coincidences now. Someone is committing crimes, and the black hearts at the scenes leave a trail of breadcrumbs back to me.

I should be going to the police. Then I remember the way Chaz looked at me when I first shared my suspicions.

He didn’t believe me, so why would anyone else?

I’ll have to prove I’m right before sharing my theory with anyone, and hopefully before the trail of black hearts results in the secrets from the past resurfacing.

I allow Marley to lead the way, the journey to the back of the pub feeling slower than usual.

Most nights, I’m eager to meet with the girls, to share my writing from the week.

Tonight, I haven’t prepared anything, and I don’t plan on pretending otherwise.

In fact, the only reason I’m here is to gauge the others’ reactions.

If one of them is the black hearts stalker, and worse, if one of them killed Jessica Wilder, I must figure out which one it is.

As we walk through the crowded pub, I study Marley, her long curly hair cascading down her back, small braids intermixed with the waves.

The way she glides through, leading with confidence and an air of mystery.

The most obvious suspect for re-enacting our stories would be her.

None of the crimes took place until after she joined the Mystery Maidens, and there’s something about her that’s irritated me since our first meeting.

An intuition that warns me there’s more beneath the surface.

It would be easier if she were the culprit, much more convenient than admitting one of my friends could be a potential murderer.

Still I can’t decide how Marley could be connected to the black hearts.

She wouldn’t have started sending them as a child, unless there’s some other connection I don’t know about.

Perhaps she uncovered the truth about my past and my drama with the hearts.

It’s not like I haven’t tried telling people about my stalker before.

Could she have found out about them from someone else and decided to include them in her twisted re-enactments?

Or maybe she’s working with someone older, someone who would understand the significance of the hearts and what they mean.

For that reason, I’m committed to looking at each of the others closely, too. I must find answers before going to the police again, and before anyone else gets hurt, before my murderous stalker turns their violence toward me.

“There you are!” Victoria says once we reach the back booth. She and Danielle are sitting beside each other, their laptops already out, two glasses of wine nearby. “We thought everyone was going to ditch us.”

“It took me forever to find an Uber,” Marley says. “Becca, what’s your excuse?”

“I haven’t felt the best today,” I answer honestly. “Afraid I’m coming down with a cold.”

I study their reactions. If one of the women here committed a murder, would they suspect someone catching onto them this fast? Would they think there is another reason for my sudden illness? If they’re leaving a black heart at every scene, they must want me to know.

“It’s that time of year,” Danielle says. “We are running late, though. Should we get started?”

“Where’s April?” I ask. I can’t be the only person to recognize our group isn’t complete.

“She’s sick, too,” Victoria says. “Her whole crew is. She messaged earlier to say she was skipping out.”

That’s strange. Rarely do any of us miss a meeting, especially April. This is the one event each week that’s about her and not her family; she wouldn’t give that time up lightly. But if she is reeling from having committed a murder, maybe that’s why she isn’t here?

“You need to go first?” Danielle asks me. “If you start to feel worse, you could head out.”

“Nothing new from me this week,” I say, trying and failing to get more comfortable in my seat. I feel their eyes on me, like little spotlights highlighting my insecurities. “Still waiting to hear back about Night Beat and haven’t felt inspired to write anything new.”

“I liked the story from last week,” Marley says, shimmying off her coat. “About the girl who was murdered, right? And the boy who killed her.”

I stare at Marley, before moving my gaze, studying both Victoria and Danielle just as closely. Have any of them seen the news? Have they put together the similarities between the story I shared last week and the student who was found on campus? Victoria works there. Surely, she’s heard about it.

Then again, the news is so recent, it hasn’t yet made its rounds around the local news circuit.

There is limited information available online, but nothing about Jessica Wilder’s murder in the morning’s paper.

I already checked. If one of them is the murderer, they must know what happened, but their reactions give nothing away.

They all stare back at me, blank-faced, ready for a response.

“Not sure where I want to go with that one,” I say. “I need to start something new, I’m just not sure what.”

“I’m with Becca,” Marley say. “I’ve been slammed with school and didn’t get around to writing anything. I’m just here for the moral support.”

Maybe it’s not school that’s been keeping Marley busy, but slashing tires and running people over. Murdering a fellow student. Why was Marley waiting for an Uber anyway? Most students have a car. Is it possible hers was damaged during the hit-and-run? Every statement sparks suspicion in my mind.

“Looks like it’ll be a short night after all,” Danielle says. “I’ll go first. I’ve been working on a story inspired by one of my cases.”

She pulls out her laptop and begins reading.

I listen closely, paying attention for any plot devices that could later morph into some type of crime.

Thankfully, no murders take place. It’s mainly about a drug ring being ratted out by an informant, a tense story under normal circumstances, but meaningless given my mindset tonight.

Victoria’s story is just as uneventful. The main character is suffering from mental illness, but doesn’t commit any notable crimes.

When she finishes reading, I relax in my seat for what feels like the first time all night.

At least I won’t expect any other crimes in the following days.

“Well, I guess that’s it for this week,” Victoria says. “If there’s nothing else to share, I’m going to head home. I have a stack of student papers to grade.”

“Is one of them mine?” Marley asks cheekily.

“I believe it could be.” Victoria stands, putting on her coat. “Same time on Monday?”

“Sorry about not having anything this week,” I say. “Once I’m feeling better, I’ll come up with something.”

“No worries. Taking a break is part of the creative process,” she says. “Maybe one of our stories will give you some inspiration.”

Inspiration . To write a story or commit a crime? It doesn’t matter what’s been said, I unpack every statement as though it’s hiding something.

“See you next time,” Marley says. She waves, her fingers dancing in the air, grating on my nerves.

“Are you okay?” Danielle says, still sitting in the booth across from me.

“Yeah. Just feeling a little sick.”

“I meant about Marley,” she says, her voice low. “You’re staring at her like you want to rip out one of those bohemian braids.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Probably not to the others. Definitely not to Marley.” She leans back in the booth. “I’m good at reading people. It comes with the job. I can’t help noticing she seems to get on your nerves.”