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TWENTY-FIVE

A dollop of whipped cream sits on Marley’s upper lip. She takes several more bites of the sugary meal before speaking.

“I’ll give it to you, I’m impressed,” she says. “I mean, given how crazy everything you just said sounds, I can’t believe there’s two of us that believe it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That one of the women in your group is a murderer.”

“I don’t think it’s one of the women in the group,” I say, pointedly. “I think it’s you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She points her finger at me. “I can see why you think that, though. In your narrative, all these weird happenings didn’t begin until I’d joined. It makes sense you’d be suspicious of the newest member, but your timeline is off.”

“What timeline?”

“The girl who was murdered last week in an eerily similar way as the girl in the story you shared,” she says. “That wasn’t the first murder.”

I blink rapidly, struggling to follow along.

“You’re saying there’s been another one?”

“Two, by my count,” she says. “Which makes the woman found in the ditch the third victim.”

“You joined the group two weeks ago,” I say. “I didn’t notice any murders similar to the ones in our stories until then.”

“That’s because they happened more than a year ago.

” Marley picks her phone out of her coat pocket and taps on the screen.

She lays the device flat on the table, and points.

“Right here. A Whitaker University student was found bludgeoned. He was killed in almost the exact same way as a story that, I believe, Danielle wrote. Flower Man is the name of it, I think.”

She swipes a few times, pulling up a second article. “Here’s the second murder. Another man died unexpectedly. This time, the death was just like a story April wrote, but I forget the name. All her stories sound the same to me after a while.”

I glance at the article, searching for details and facts.

“I don’t understand. Why do you think these murders are connected to the stories from group?”

Marley leans back, crossing her arms again. “I know about the stories because Victoria shared them with our creative writing class. I couldn’t help noticing the similarities between them and the actual deaths on campus.”

“Anyone could have died that way,” I say. “There’s no connection to the group.”

“I’m guessing that’s exactly what the police said to you when you told them about your Layla story.”

My cheeks flush. I never got a chance to speak with Chaz after Jessica Wilder’s death. He had already treated me like I was foolish before that. “No, that death was targeted. I’m convinced.”

“And I’m convinced about these other two. See, you’re right. I’m not a writer. I’m only taking that stupid creative writing class because I need a few more English electives for my major. And you caught me on that Rosebud story, too.”

“Okay.” By the restaurant’s entrance, two drunken college students stumble, knocking into the table closest to them.

The scene distracts me, and I shake my head, trying to refocus on what Marley has to say.

“I don’t understand. Why pull a fake story off the internet and join our group in the first place? ”

“The stories I mentioned that were related to the first two deaths? Victoria used them in our creative writing class. She often pulls random stories and brings them in for us to critique. Trust me, everything you’re feeling right now, questioning whether or not you’re crazy for thinking there could be a connection—that’s how I felt, too.

I mean, what were the odds that two stories almost exactly mirrored the deaths of two locals?

“At first, I thought my teacher was a raging psychopath. That these were stories she’d written about crimes she’d committed.” She pauses, letting the idea sink in. “See? Crazy, right? Then Victoria admitted she’d pulled those stories, and several others, from her own writing group.”

I’m in shock, not only about what Marley is saying, but over the fact Victoria would use our group’s stories in her writing class.

It feels like a violation, knowing how hard we’ve worked on our craft to share with a select few.

I was convinced the murderer had to be in our group because we were the only ones with access.

The list of potential suspects just got much longer.

“Anyway,” Marley continues. “That’s when I knew even if she wasn’t involved, it was definitely someone in the Mystery Maidens.”

When she says the group name, there’s a sing-song quality to her voice, like she’s talking about Superman or the Boogeyman. As closely as I’m watching her, Marley is studying me, trying to gauge whether I follow her train of thought.

“So, you joined the Mystery Maidens because you thought one of us was a killer?”

“Exactly.” She leans against the backrest, satisfied. “I wanted to learn a little bit more about you, and since I’m a shitty writer myself, I had to pull a story off the internet to get in. I had to make Victoria think I had some talent if I wanted an invitation.”

“And she hasn’t figured out that all your stories are copies?”

“I know, right? I figured she’d flunk me for submitting a fake story in class. I guess between being a college professor, mystery author and potential serial killer, she doesn’t have much time for weeding out cheating students.”

“You can’t actually think Victoria is a killer.”

“You thought I was,” she says, pointedly.

“Again, I don’t know if it’s Victoria. I think it could be any of you.

Although, I’m less suspicious of you now, considering you put this whole thing together.

You’d have to be a special type of twisted to put this much effort into finding a killer if it was you the whole time. ”

“It’s not me.” I look down at the table, the bizarre nature of our conversation becoming overwhelming. “But I don’t see it being any of them, either. I was convinced it was you because everything happened right after you joined the group.”

“I get it. It’s much more unsettling to admit that someone you’re close to could be a killer. In most cases, that’s how it ends up.”

The drunk people at the front of the restaurant are getting louder. I wish I could leave, but there’s still more information I need to get, and I still don’t know if I can trust Marley, not enough to venture out in the night streets with her.

“I get you made a connection, but how?”

“I already admitted I’m not a writer. Hell, I don’t even read unless it’s required for school.

Literature just doesn’t do it for me. It’s the true stories I find the most interesting.

I’m a true crime junkie. Podcasts, YouTube channels, Reddit threads.

Anytime there’s a local crime, I read all about it.

It wasn’t hard for me to compare the similarities between the deaths and the short stories.

And it didn’t take long for me to figure out this is a story that could sell. ”

“So, you’re a journalist?”

“Psych major. I’ve always wanted to understand the human mind, the good parts and the bad. But I’m not going to walk away from a potential goldmine. I’m pulling all my research together to create my own podcast.”

“You’re hoping to make money off all this?”

“Don’t make it sound so greedy,” she says. “You mean to tell me it doesn’t sound fascinating? The idea of a serial killer targeting students, mirroring their crimes after fictional stories. Listeners will eat it up.”

There’s definitely more to Marley than is visible on the surface. I got that right all along. She lied about herself and her credentials to infiltrate the group, but not because she was a murderer, rather because she wants to capitalize off the world’s fascination with crime.

I watch her carefully. Marley gives off paradoxical vibes, making it hard to completely trust her.

An open book with a few pages ripped out.

I want to believe she’s telling the truth, but I can’t shake the instinct there’s more she isn’t telling me.

I need to keep at least some information to myself, because having Marley know that someone has been tailing me for the past decade gives her more power than I can trust her with.

“The first murder, the one where the guy was bludgeoned. It happened two years ago.”

“I know.” She averts her eyes, fiddling with a loose thread on her jacket sleeve.

“Certain cases stick with you. The murder was almost identical to what happened in the story, even down to where the body was found. My theory is whoever killed those men found their inspiration in the stories that were shared, which makes the killer a member of your group.”

I just stare at her, my mind not willing yet to make that connection if the murderer is not Marley.

“You said you noticed a link between the stories and the crimes after I joined,” Marley says. “What was the first thing you noticed?”

I backtrack, telling Marley everything, beginning with the slashed tires and the hit-and-run, and ending with the eerie similarities between the Layla story and the most recent death. She listens intently, dropping her eyes to the news article on the table between us.

“This Layla girl. It’s not a story you made up. What happened to her was real.”

For so long, I’ve used my writing to cope with my trauma, but now the lines between fiction and real life are blurring.

The idea of Layla’s case being pulled into Marley’s web turns my stomach, but there’s not much I can do to back out now.

I readily told her about everything. Except the black hearts.

Shame, hot and twisted, riles inside, like a serpent fighting to get out.

I should have known better than to use Layla’s tragedy in a story. She deserved more than that.

“We were best friends. College roommates,” I explain. “What happened to her was a decade ago. I’ve been struggling to come up with new story ideas, ever since I finished writing Night Beat . I only wrote about what happened because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”