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THREE

As I walk home, I search the area for anything that appears out of place, a rogue black heart intentionally left along my path.

Nothing captures my attention, and when my paranoia dies, I find myself scanning the streets for inspiration, hoping the commotion around me will present potential story ideas.

Whitaker is small, but lively. The main hub of activity is the twelve-block section reserved for WU, littered with bars and restaurants.

It’s after ten o’clock, which means there are just enough people crowding the cobblestone streets of downtown.

Here, the business and residential districts are intertwined.

There’s a dessert shop beside a bar, and across the street from that is a two-story colonial I’ve always admired.

A young couple sharing ice cream on a park bench beneath the lamplight. A trio of men, their balance wavering as they leave one pub and head to the next. An old woman stands on her lattice-lined porch, just now taking down the rubber skeleton hanging on her front door.

Each vignette grabs my attention temporarily, but eventually falls flat. Coming up with an idea is never the problem. It’s taking that idea and stretching it that becomes daunting.

With Night Beat , it was simple. I’d watched a Dateline episode that first sparked my interest. Just as I search the newspapers for inspiration, I do the same with all forms of media.

Television shows and documentaries and podcasts—all serve as a kind of starting point for the strenuous marathon that is writing a novel.

Most ideas, if they interest me long enough, morph into the same question: What if?

What if the person reporting on crime suddenly found herself investigating one?

What if she suspected the person closest to her was the culprit?

How would she use her background and experiences to combat that situation?

Writing Night Beat was a thrilling experience, one that’s become increasingly harder to imitate.

When a good idea strikes you, it’s impossible to ignore.

When a good idea evades you, that’s when you really start to lose your mind.

It’s like I’m drowning in a sea of potential, and each structure I cling to for support turns out to be yet another piece of unsteady debris, making me sink further.

My body rattles at the sound of a blaring car horn.

A young woman darts across the road in front of the car, holding up her hand in apology.

The noise brings me out of my endless brain fog, makes me fully aware of my surroundings.

I think of the black heart—what I thought was the black heart—on the parking meter.

It turned out to be nothing at all, which wouldn’t be the first time my paranoia has gotten the best of me.

There’s no denying that one was left for me in my mailbox, so it’s only natural part of my brain will be searching for another message wherever I go. That’s been the pattern.

The first time I received a note was the day I moved out of my college apartment.

My things had been thrown into cardboard boxes.

I stood next to the mess of belongings on the sidewalk, staring at the Christmas lights which decorated the lampposts, waiting on my mother to pick me up.

She thought it was only for a holiday break, that going home would help clear my head .

I knew I’d never come back to Whitaker University, not as a student.

I turned around, looking at the idyllic campus landscape, most beautiful in winter, and an icy shudder ran through my body. Too much had happened here, and I couldn’t forget the wrong that had been done to me, just as I couldn’t forgive myself for the wrong I’d done.

When Mom finally arrived, I hurriedly threw the boxes into her Suburban, eager to find warmth inside the car.

As I pushed the last box into the trunk, it caught my eye.

A single piece of paper with a black heart.

Only a hurried sketch, I’d thought. Something that my roommate had added to my box by mistake.

It wasn’t until another heart showed up on Christmas Day—the one carved into the trunk of my childhood home—that I noticed the pattern.

Sometimes the notes come with a message, some more threatening than others.

The most recent message is easy enough to figure out— 10 .

It’s been ten years since it happened, and maybe if I’d kept my promise, and never returned to Whitaker, my life wouldn’t be in shambles.

Another blast of icy wind blows my hair away from my face. It’s striking how quickly winter is approaching. It almost feels like that night I left campus all those years ago. By the time I reach my apartment, my fingers are stiff from the cold.

My apartment isn’t much to brag about. In fact, the one I lived in as a student would have been considered an upgrade, although that place has long since been demolished.

My current building’s three-story structure only holds six units, so I rarely run into neighbors.

The central location—my apartment is sandwiched between a coffee shop and a laundromat—provides just enough protection.

I rarely feel scared or unsafe, even with the threat of an unseen stalker nearby.

I climb the rickety stairs that lead to the top floor and enter my unit.

The dining-room table is just as lonely and unwelcoming as it was when I left this evening.

My half-empty coffee mug sits beside piles of notebooks, the pages littered with more ideas that never seem to stick.

I think about the stories the other Maidens shared during our meeting, and that twisting feeling of failure returns.

Something clatters against the ground. A sound coming from the back of the apartment, toward where my bedroom is.

My eyes dart over to the kitchen, my gaze landing on the knife block.

Watch enough 48 Hours and news reports, and your first thought is liable to be a defensive one when you hear a sound in the dead of night.

And with the presence of the black hearts, whoever has been tormenting me all this time is back, and getting closer.

Cautiously, I make my way over to the kitchen, just as another sound, this time closer, lands. One of the bedroom doors opens with a creak.

“Shit, Becca.” Crystal, wearing nothing but a towel, steps back, clutching her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, moving away from the knives, the pounding in my chest weakening.

“I thought you were working tonight,” she says, wrapping the towel tighter around herself.

“Nope,” I say, resting my messenger bag back on the dining-room table. “I had my critique group.”

“That’s right,” she says, sitting in the armchair closest to the television. “It’s been one of those days. I can’t keep track of anything.”

Truthfully, I’d half-forgotten Crystal was here.

We’ve been friends for ages. She was my roommate years ago when we were in college.

Thanks to her recently called-off engagement, she’s reprised the role.

I offered to let her stay in the spare bedroom until she gets back on her perfectly pedicured feet.

It shouldn’t take her long to find a place; Crystal works for one of the leading real estate agencies in the area.

“Busy day?” I ask, noting it’s rather late for her to be taking a shower.

“That’s an understatement,” she says, kicking her feet onto the ottoman. “Endless showings. People think it’s tough buying in this market; they should try selling. It doesn’t matter how I spin it; smart deals are hard to come by.”

“You’re good at your job,” I say. My mind conjures the image of a billboard on the I-40. It’s advertising beautiful homes at competitive prices and features Crystal’s airbrushed face. “If anyone can make a sale in this market, it’s you.”

“Thanks for the endorsement.” She looks away, staring out the lone window in the living room. It must be difficult for her to waltz around beautiful homes all day then return to this dump. My dump. “It’s not just work though. I talked to Thomas today.”

Thomas, the ex-fiancé. He never really impressed me, although very few of Crystal’s boyfriends ever have.

I did think her relationship with Thomas might last, though.

He was prone to chauvinist jokes and always had this dead-behind-the-eyes stare, but on paper he was a good catch.

Handsome. Wealthy. Sociable. Those latter attributes were always important to Crystal, and I figured she’d overlook his undesirable qualities to make it work.

Imagine my surprise when two weeks ago she phoned and asked to stay at my place.

She’d called off the engagement, and although making room for another person in my tiny apartment at the last-minute wasn’t ideal, I couldn’t turn her down.

Her decision to leave Thomas and start over fresh demanded my respect.

“What did he want?” I asked.

She sighs, turning to face me. “He was giving me another guilt trip about the wedding. Apparently, he’s not told his extended family about the breakup. He keeps hoping we’ll reconcile.”

“And will you?” Crystal took a stand in moving out but tends to fold when the pressure comes.

“No. We want different things,” she says, staring at her hands, at the finger where her massive engagement ring used to be.

“All he talks about is moving upstate and trying to get pregnant. He knows I’m on the fence about even having kids, but he expects me to give in.

If he’s being this pushy before we walk down the aisle, what will he be like after we exchange vows? ”

“I know walking away is hard, but it would be even harder a year from now,” I say. “Five years from now.”

Her jaw clenches. “It just sucks. You know, six months ago, I felt like I had everything figured out. Now, I’m starting over with nothing.”

I move uncomfortably in my seat, the drab surroundings becoming more apparent with each passing second. Crystal’s untimely fall from grace is my boring reality, the reality I’ve lived for almost a decade, and coming to terms with that fact is rather depressing.

“I didn’t mean nothing ,” she says, having caught on to my reaction. “Obviously, I have you. It’s just, the way you live your life is different from the way I’ve always lived mine. You’re happy with so little.”

Is that what people see when they look at me? A happy minimalist? It’s certainly not how I view myself. I’m over thirty with no real career. No romantic partner. My closest friends are my old college roommate and the people I met less than a year ago at Mystery Maidens.

When I reflect on my life, the good and the bad, my failings and accomplishments, it makes sense why I am where I am.

I think it makes sense why Crystal is here, too, although she’s reluctant to admit it.

It’s impossible to outrun our pasts, even if she appears miles ahead.

Neither of us really deserve a happy ending after the mistakes we’ve made.

“Sorry for being such a Debbie Downer.” Crystal stands, tightening the towel around her once more. “I just need a good night’s rest. I’ll be fine.”

“You always are,” I say, taking my laptop out of my messenger bag.

Crystal is about to turn into her bedroom when she pauses. “How about you? I forgot to ask about your day.”

“Uneventful. I lounged around the apartment most of the day before meeting up with the writing group at McCallie’s.”

“I think it’s cool you’ve found people that are into the same thing as you,” she says. She’s leaning against the bedroom door, no doubt offering friendly conversation as a thank you for her free living arrangement.

“Yeah,” I say. “Their feedback is really helpful.”

Despite our long friendship, Crystal and I have very little in common, a fact that becomes more obvious each day we live under a shared roof.

She never reads books. She’s an early bird who works hard during the week only to go barhopping on the weekends.

If I’m not working a shift at the restaurant, I’m back here, in this cramped apartment, writing unpublished stories that may never go anywhere at all.

Still, there’s history between us. You can’t find that with just anybody. No one will ever understand the harder parts of my life like Crystal. Our shared trauma bonds us to one another.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says, walking into the bedroom. “I know you creative types get your best work done at night.”

The door shuts behind her, and I’m left alone.

I stare at my laptop, waiting for the screen to load, trying to ignore the twisting feeling in my stomach.

The phrase Done is better than perfect scrolling through my mind like a news banner.

Too depressed to face the blinking cursor again, I check my email.

Another literary agent has messaged me.

Another form letter rejection.

Unable to shake off the humiliating feeling of failure, I lower my head into my hands.

It’s not just the rejection. It’s my inability to come up with a new idea, too.

It’s being faced with the obvious talents of my peers at Mystery Maidens.

It’s witnessing Crystal’s utter depression at having a life so like mine.

These endless disappointments jangle inside my head until it’s painful.

I wonder how many sentences of Night Beat this particular literary agent read before considering it an epic waste of time. Did she give it a chance at all?

After everything I’ve done, do I even deserve one?