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“She does,” I admit, watching as Victoria and Marley make their way through the crowded pub to the exit. “Is it just me, or is there something off about her?”

“She’s a bit shiny and new,” she says. “I think that energy can become draining when you’re old and boring like us.”

“I wouldn’t say either one of us is old.”

“Compared to her we are. Do you remember what it was like to be that careless and fun? Feels like a lifetime ago for me,” she says, leaning back, a look of nostalgia on her face. “But she is talented. I suppose that’s why Victoria allowed her to join the group.”

There’s no denying that Marley is a gifted writer, and although I won’t admit it to Danielle, that’s probably the main reason I dislike her.

She’s the epitome of everything I want to be, everything I once was.

That, and she’s the most likely culprit behind the copycat crimes.

Is it possible my story unlocked something inside of her? Made her start lashing out at others?

When the waitress walks past our table, Danielle flags her down and orders another drink.

“Not in a hurry to get home?” I ask.

“To my lonely apartment? Nah, I’ll stay out for one more drink. Maybe I’ll go to sleep faster.”

“No boyfriend or girlfriend?” I continue, realizing immediately that’s the most personal question I’ve ever asked Danielle.

She laughs, raising her glass. “Not at the moment. With the schedule I have, I’m not sure it will ever happen.”

“You’re quite the catch,” I tell her. “Beautiful. Smart. And a gifted writer.”

I think about the first time I met Danielle. If it weren’t for her, I never would have joined Mystery Maidens, and funnily enough, what put us in contact was the black hearts.

I reached out to Danielle’s firm after I’d been fired from the MedSpa, hoping I could sue them for lost wages.

My anger was intense because I knew I’d done nothing wrong and the black hearts were to blame, but because the sender remained a mystery, it seemed more logical for me to direct my fury at my former employer.

The moment I stepped into Danielle’s waiting room, I was intimidated. Shiny new floors and clean, posh furniture. Being around lawyers made me as nervous as being around cops, but I felt I had to do something to get my job back, and I hoped threatening a lawsuit might do the trick.

I became even more unsettled when I stepped into her office and saw her.

I’d been expecting an older woman, someone around my mom’s age with a Marcia Clark-like confidence.

Instead, I saw someone my own age. Beautiful, smart, accomplished.

She greeted me with complete professionalism and kindness, yet as I retold my version of what happened at the MedSpa, I felt my voice weakening, like the very ground beneath me was shifting.

I never did get the courage to tell her about the black hearts; I’d hoped there’d be a way to get my job back without bringing them up.

“Is there anything we can do?” I asked, hoping for once I’d get a win, a break from the constant cycle of disappointment.

Danielle leaned forward, her delicate wrists accented with simple, expensive jewelry. “The fact there aren’t cameras helps us,” she said. “They can’t prove you stole the cash, just like you can’t prove you didn’t. However, the fact you were there less than sixty days works against us.”

“How?”

“If they were citing theft as the reason they fired you, we could challenge them on that front. Typically, if someone is let go in the first sixty days, an employer doesn’t have to have a reason. They could simply say you weren’t the right fit.”

“But that’s not true.” I felt my cheeks reddening, my desperation scratching at my throat. “They fired me because they think I stole tips, and I didn’t.”

“I believe you,” she said, calmly. “But if I were in your shoes, I’d walk away. It would be easier and save you time and money in the long run.”

“That was the first job I’ve had in years I actually enjoyed,” I said under my breath, feeling a familiar hopelessness.

“Have you started working anywhere else?”

I exhaled, leaning against the velvet backrest. “I’m waiting tables at a place downtown. Mario’s Pizzeria.”

“That’s a good restaurant,” she said, for the first time failing to sound genuine. “I’ve always heard servers make more than hourly workers anyway.”

“It’s good for the time being.” I cleared my throat, desperate to sound less like a loser. “My real passion is writing. I’m working on my first book, actually.”

A broad smile spread across her face, and she leaned back, resting a silver pen against her lips. “Really? What kind of writing?”

“Mysteries and thrillers, mostly,” I said. “They’ve always been my favorite to read.”

“Very interesting, indeed.” She leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “This isn’t why you came to see me today, but I might be able to help you after all. Let me tell you about the Mystery Maidens.”

The rest was history. That chance meeting introduced me to the group, which led me to where I am now.

Although we’ve all been meeting for more than a year, we only know superficial amounts about each other’s lives.

I wonder what quiet moments of desperation exist in all our lives, if the desperation became too much to handle for someone, pushed one of us over the edge.

“I think I like the way my life is,” Danielle says, bringing my thoughts away from our first introduction and back to the present. “I don’t answer to anyone else. If I want to work late or write or stay for an extra drink, I can. Not everyone is in that position.”

“How about family?” I ask.

“I completed my undergrad back home before I moved here for school. Like you,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “I always thought I’d move back after I graduated law school, but one thing led to another. I suppose this is my home now, for better or worse.”

I don’t plan on telling her I never finished my degree. It’s a fact I’ve managed to keep quiet for over a year; I assume most of them believe I graduated and am only working as a waitress to support my starving artist lifestyle.

Like Danielle, I never planned on staying here either. Sometimes I wonder why I did.

“My mom and I have always been at odds,” I say. “I guess I figure the more distance between us the better.”

“Sometimes distance is a good thing,” she says. “Although, I’ve been away from my hometown for so long most of my friends have moved on with their lives. Moved on from me. It took me a while to realize I don’t really fit into other people’s circles, which is why I focused on creating my own.”

“I know the feeling,” I say, although I’ve yet to find a place where I really belong, outside of the fictional worlds I create.

For a moment, I’m taken aback by the similarities in our situations.

Both Whitaker transplants, both here for several years without finding our footing, and both trying to turn our hobby into something substantial, although at least she has a career to fall back on.

Could Danielle be the person behind these murders? As she’s just admitted, she has time for little else outside writing and work. Even if she managed to fit messing with me and murdering a co-ed into her schedule, what would her motive be?

“Are you dating anyone?” she asks me.

I laugh, harshly. “No. Come to think of it, I’ve only had one relationship, and he cheated on me. Kinda sad when you think about it.”

“Men are dogs,” she says, taking another sip of her drink.

“Well, he didn’t do it alone,” I say. “What’s that make the woman involved?”

“A bitch.”

We nearly choke on our own laughter. I knock over my almost empty glass, quickly grabbing a napkin to wipe up the mess.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? We spend all this time together and know so little about each other.”

“I always thought that was one of the positives of the group,” she says. “We’re able to look at each other’s work more objectively the less we know.”

On the flip side, I think, it makes it harder to gauge which, if any, of the group members might be a killer.

“It’s nice making new friends, though,” she says. “Lessens the sting of knowing everyone else moved on without me.”

“It is nice,” I say.

“The only one who really tells us anything about their life outside of writing is April,” she says. “Moms are natural over-sharers.”

I laugh at the truth of the comment. “Strange she missed tonight,” I say, watching Danielle for a reaction.

“Struggles of being a mom,” she says, finishing off the rest of her wine. “I guess.”

After my conversation with Danielle, reminiscing on the way we first met, how she introduced me to the others, I can’t see her risking her privileged, albeit lonely life, to mess with me, which means I’ll have to turn my focus to the other group members.

April didn’t show up for tonight’s meeting—the first meeting after Jessica Wilder was killed—and I want to find out why.