Page 29

TWENTY-FOUR

All I want is to get away from Banyon’s Bridge.

My chest wheezes with each harsh inhale, my boots tapping against the gray cobblestones.

I’m alone, seemingly, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been duped.

Whoever left the envelope with the black heart on it is one step ahead of me, could still be here, watching my stunned reaction.

Layla isn’t something I talk about. Ever. Not even with Crystal, the one person in my life who experienced the brutal ordeal alongside me.

The most notorious true crime stories have an aura of mystery surrounding the cases.

The straightforward murders—girl meets boy in a bar, he attacks her and is swiftly arrested—are easily forgotten.

The name Layla Williams still lingers in some true crime circles, but not widely, because of its quick resolution.

This article was left strategically, and whoever left it not only knows my past, but is threatening me with it.

Thankfully, my connection to the crime seems to have been forgotten, except, most notably, by whoever has been sending me black hearts for the past ten years.

The implication behind the symbol is clear.

My stalker blames me for Layla’s death, tries reminding me of it at every major turn in my life, as though I could ever forget.

They’ve thrown a series of slurs at me in the past decade— Fraud, Abandoner, Cheat .

And what hurts the most is that the black hearts stalker is right. Layla’s death was always my fault.

I slam the car door shut and crank the engine, holding my frigid fingers in front of the heating unit, waiting for warm air.

I believe I know who left the message behind on the bridge, the same person I was following in the first place, the culprit I’ve been hoping to catch in my carefully laid trap.

Marley.

I realize now what’s bothered me about her since our first meeting.

She reminds me of Layla. Their flowy maxi skirts and layered accessories.

The way both their hair is a tangled mess of curls and bohemian braids.

Even the small tattoos—a black sparrow and a black heart.

When I first saw Marley, standing beside my table at McCallie’s Pub, it was like seeing a ghost, a long-lost friend I’d expected to never see again.

Marley didn’t belong, just like Layla has never belonged in the avoidable tragedy that took her life.

Could it be yet another coincidence? Two college students, a decade apart, with similar styles.

If Marley left the article and the black heart at the bridge, it means she knows about my past. Her intentions might be darker.

Maybe she’s purposely dressing herself like my deceased best friend, another way for her to get under my skin.

Once my fingers are warm, I wrap them around the steering wheel and reverse onto the street. It’s foolish to confront a could-be killer at all, let alone after midnight. Yet, anger overrides my logic as I drive in the direction of Marley’s apartment.

There’s ample street parking across from her building.

I remain inside the car, peering out the window at the old-world apartment complex.

Ivy climbs the dark redbrick, a wrought- iron fire escape connected to each floor.

That’s where I see her. Marley is alone in the dark, lounging in a cushioned seat at the corner of the fire escape.

The dangling fairy lights wrapped around the railing illuminate her silhouette.

It’s awfully late and too cold to be sitting outside alone. She’s in college, I remind myself. Midnight is when things typically get going around that age. Yet Marley isn’t at some kegger or pub, she’s sitting alone in the darkness. Why? Perhaps she just recently returned home from Banyon’s Bridge.

In the passenger seat, the photograph of Layla stares up at me.

The article used the same one that all the papers did, an old senior portrait.

There were more recent ones, but I suspect publications chose this specific picture for a reason.

Her clear blue eyes speak to her youthful innocence, her wide smile reminds people, like me right now, how cruelly she was taken from the world.

I replay that last night we had together, her last night on earth, over and over again.

What I said to her during that conversation haunts me, but I’m more bothered by what I didn’t say.

If only I’d been more assertive when I told her about what Mike did to me, or what he tried to do, maybe she wouldn’t have stayed behind.

I’d been so afraid to admit what happened, even to myself, that I let my uncertainty overthrow what was right, and Layla paid for my mistake with her life.

Long-buried regret rumbles in my chest as I open the car door and meet the cold night air. The article clenched in my fist, I cross the street, standing directly below Marley’s balcony, the tie-dye tapestries ruffling in the cold night breeze.

“I know you’re up there,” I shout, an angry Romeo calling out to a twisted Juliet. Several seconds pass before Marley approaches the railing. Shadows obscure her features, but it’s clearly her peering down into the near-empty street.

“Becca?” Marley is wearing dark loungewear, her hair atop her head in a messy bun. A lit cigarette is pinched between her fingers.

“Are we going to talk about this?” I raise the article and shake my fist at her. My voice is louder this time, fully conveying my anger. The potential someone might hear me doesn’t register. In fact, I welcome witnesses. Strength in numbers and all.

Marley raises the cigarette to her lips and inhales. “What is that? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know it was you,” I say, my anger overriding that small, sane voice inside that insists I’m in over my head. “I know everything was you. I wrote that story to draw you out to Banyon’s Bridge, but you figured me out.”

Marley puts the cigarette out on the iron railing, small sparks sprinkling down. “Becca, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you want to come inside?—”

“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” I scoff. “I’m not entering the apartment of a murderer.”

That last word comes out in a thud, echoing down the quiet streets. Marley’s grip on the railing tightens.

“Fine. I’ll come to you. There’s a diner down the block. I can meet you there in ten minutes,” she pauses, “and we’ll talk.”

I stare up, saying nothing. I thought it would be harder to get her to cooperate.

I anticipated more back and forth, more yelling.

Denial. Maybe Marley is more strategic than I gave her credit for.

If she is a narcissistic murderer, the last thing she needs is her neighbors to overhear the accusation.

And the diner provides more cover and safety for me, even at this desolate time of night.

Tightening my coat around me, I hurry down the block.

I assume she’s talking about the Red Buzzer; it’s the only all-night establishment around here.

I need to get there before her and give myself plenty of time to think about what I want to say.

My anger craved a confrontation, but now I need to be smart.

This might be my only chance to prove my suspicions, and I can’t mess it up.

Surprisingly, the diner is packed. I suppose that’s to be expected since it’s so close to a college campus.

There’s a free booth by the far window. I snag it, my fingers shaking as I flatten the envelope and article on the table.

The waitress arrives and I order a coffee, just as I see Marley, a heavy coat over her comfortable clothes, enter the building.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” She sits across from me, her hands in her pockets. There’s a look of annoyance on her face, or maybe it’s amusement and she’s gaining some kind of sick pleasure from watching me squirm.

“You know what’s going on,” I say with confidence.

“I can assure you that I don’t.” She smiles when the waitress returns to our table and orders a coffee.

Her voice is laid-back and easy, like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

Once the waitress walks away, she leans against the backrest and crosses her arms over her chest. Those light-gray eyes narrow.

“Care to tell me why you were screaming outside of my apartment in the middle of the night?”

I hold up the article. She leans closer, her eyes scanning it. She shakes her head.

“What is that?”

“It’s the message you left for me at the bridge,” I say, growing more irritated by the second.

“What bridge?” She raises her hands at this, flapping them in the air. “Becca, I’m completely lost here.”

“Banyon’s Bridge. The one in my story,” I say with conviction.

The waitress returns to deliver Marley’s coffee, and I realize how loud my voice is getting, how irrational I must appear.

I clear my throat and begin again. “The story I shared tonight was about a man that was murdered on a bridge, remember?”

“Vaguely.”

I ignore the dig. “I wrote it because I know what you’ve been doing.”

“And what is that exactly?” She raises the mug to her lips, waiting.

“You’ve been copying the stories we write about in group. First it was the car with the slashed tires. And then the hit-and-run on my street.” I pause, lowering my tone an octave more, fully aware of how paranoid I sound. “And then there was the woman murdered outside the pub.”

Marley’s beautiful gray eyes go wide. She carefully puts her coffee mug on the table, laces her fingers together and leans forward.

“I’m sorry. Are you accusing me of murder?”

“I am,” I say, determined. Here, in this setting, with the article about Layla beside me, it no longer seems ridiculous.

I look at Marley, and I see someone willing to go to extreme lengths, if for no other reason than her own entertainment.

Leaving the article was her way of toying with me, my punishment for catching onto her games, but by calling her out, I’m making it clear the match isn’t over yet.

“I’m listening,” she says, never shifting her eyes away from me.

“I started noticing the connection last week. I wrote the story about a man being murdered at the bridge because I wanted to lure you there and confront you before anything happened. I wanted to catch you.”

Marley raises her eyebrows. “You were willing to put an innocent man at risk to prove you were right? That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, well it didn’t work, did it?” I raise the article again. “Somehow, you figured out what I was doing and left this behind to punish me.”

She casts her eyes over it, reading, a quizzical look on her face.

“Oh my,” she says. “You’re the Becca in this article, aren’t you?”

My teeth grind against each other. “You know that I am.”

Marley raises her hand in the air, calling over the waitress for a fourth time.

“I think I’d like to order the stuffed French toast with a side of grits,” she tells her. “Looks like we’re going to be here a while. Want anything, Becca?”

I remain silent. She must be more psychotic than I thought. I’ve just accused her of murder, and she’s rewarding herself with food.

“I’ve already gone to the police, you know.” I must keep control of the conversation, make Marley understand her little mind games aren’t affecting me.

“You did?” She feigns surprise. “Let me guess, they laughed you off.”

I lock my jaw, fighting not to show a reaction.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I know you’re behind this. Even if people don’t believe me now, it won’t be hard to find proof. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“That they do.” She takes a packet of sugar and adds it to her coffee. “Quick question, why have you settled on me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, your theory is that someone in the Mystery Maidens is using our stories as inspiration to go out and commit crimes,” she says. “Why me?”

“I’ve been a member of the group for over a year, and nothing like this has ever happened before. Not until two weeks ago, after you joined.”

“I see. That certainly makes sense.”

The playful quality of her voice angers me. She’s getting too much enjoyment from this confrontation.

“You’re not even a real writer,” I say. “I know that Rosebud was plagiarized.”

Marley snorts. “My, my. You have done your research.”

“I’ve just accused you of murder and you’re acting like this is some kind of game,” I say. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Marley exhales, leaning harder onto the table, the skin of her elbows flattening against the Formica surface.

“I hate to tell you this, Becca, but you have the wrong person.” She pauses. “The good news, however, is that I believe everything you’re saying.”

My head drops, trying to unravel the riddle she’s just presented to me. “What?”

“I believe you that there’s a murderer in the Mystery Maidens,” she says. “But it isn’t me.”

“What do you mean, it isn’t you?”

“Everything you’ve been saying makes sense. All your research lines up. Granted, I didn’t know about the slashed tires and the hit-and-run. Those events seem to be targeted at you. But when it comes to the girl that was murdered last week, I believe you.”

I squint my eyes closed, bright circles dancing across my eyelids. I’m so exhausted and distracted, I’m having trouble following what Marley’s saying. Out of all the reactions I predicted, this wasn’t one of them.

“You believe me?”

“Yes. Someone in the writing group is committing murders, it just isn’t me,” she says. “And now, I suspect it isn’t you.”

I’m still struggling to follow when the waitress returns with Marley’s food. The smells hijack my senses, add to my wavering sense of displacement.

Marley begins cutting into her meal with a fork. “Let me get a couple bites in, and I’ll explain,” she says. “I’d reconsider ordering if I were you. Like I said, we could be here a while.”