Page 32

TWENTY-SIX

The backroom of Mario’s Pizzeria remains closed until dinner. Most days, that’s where servers will go to eat a quick meal during their shift or roll silverware when business is slow. Today, it’s where I’ve asked Marley to meet me.

For over an hour, we’ve been alone, discussing the likelihood that one of the other members of our writing group could be a killer, and as bizarre as the theory sounds every time I say it aloud, the possibility is slowly beginning to materialize.

Mainly, because I can now attach names and faces to the previous crimes Marley told me about.

To my left, is a pile containing all the information about the first murder.

Brandon Davis, a WU freshman. He’s the one that was bludgeoned in an alley outside of a bar.

Friends had seen him leave the establishment alone.

Somewhere along the ten-minute walk back to his apartment, he’d stumbled into an alley and was hit over the head almost a dozen times with a blunt object.

His body was discovered by a city trash worker the following morning.

“Here’s the story that goes along with that one,” Marley says, handing it over.

Flower Man by Danielle. It’s a story I’ve never read before, one that was shared before I joined the Mystery Maidens.

I scan the story again, pulling for details that carry it over the threshold into nonfiction.

The live band’s music mellowed as the man left the bar… the darkened alley carved between the laundromat and the takeout shops became his final resting place… the wooden slab shot into the sky before making brutal contact with his head… blood splattered on his shirt…

There are obvious similarities between the story and the crime, but my confidence still wavers.

“I’m seeing a short story about a man that was attacked and a news report about a man that was murdered,” I say. “It’s not like it’s the most original idea or the first violent crime to ever happen. How do you know there’s a link?”

Marley shuffles through the stack of papers, pulling out a photograph. It’s a shot from the crime scene, a man laying inert on the pavement, dark splotches on his vibrant shirt, a mangled mess where his head used to be.

“Wow, Marley, that’s enough,” I say, shielding my eyes. “Where did you even get that?”

“Some of the photos were leaked online.” She looks down, pointing. “Really study it. Look at the businesses closest by?—”

“China One Takeout and Ninth Street Laundromat,” I finish her sentence, pushing the crime scene photo away. “I get what you’re saying. It’s just like what’s in the story, but there’s no proof there’s a connection.”

“I could say the same things about The Mistake and the murder of Jessica Wilder,” she says, pointedly. “You’re convinced they’re connected, aren’t you?”

The implication is clear. I’m treating her no different than Chaz did when I first brought him my suspicions. If I expect to be believed, I need to at least hear through the rest of Marley’s theory.

“Okay. What makes you so convinced the second murder was connected?”

We move our attention to the stack of papers directly in front of me.

The second murder took place almost six months after the first. Similar location and victimology.

Looking at their photos, the two men even look the same.

The main difference is that the second man, Rudy Raines, died from strangulation.

The story Marley believes inspired this murder is titled Lost Cause and was written by April. It’s about a philandering husband who is encountered by his jilted lover and murdered. She lures him into a park late at night, where she wraps a belt around his throat and strangles him.

Marley sifts through papers again.

“Please, if you’re sharing anymore gruesome photos, don’t,” I protest.

“I left the most gruesome ones back at the apartment. Things would have been a lot easier if you’d agreed to meet me there.” Finally, she finds what she’s looking for. It’s another photo from the crime scene, but this time it’s only of the victim’s hand. “Do you see that?”

“It’s a hand,” I say. “I’m more worried about your access to such disturbing images.”

She ignores me. “Look at his ring finger. Do you see that white band? That’s where his wedding ring should be, but he wasn’t wearing it.”

“Maybe he was divorced. Or separated.”

“Nope. Wife and two kids, according to the obituary. After some more digging online, I discovered Rudy had the reputation of being a cheat. Just like the character in the story.”

“What about the murder weapon?” I ask, becoming more uneasy.

“Nothing was found at the scene. Based on the indentations around his neck, cops thought it could have been a belt.”

“Just like the story.”

My eyes bounce between the various piles, trying to make sense of everything. There’s undoubtedly a connection between each crime and its corresponding story, but there’s no smoking gun, no remarkable coincidence that convinces me these crimes were inspired by anything at all.

Unlike Marley, I’m well-read when it comes to the crime genre.

If I were to scroll through any random writer’s catalogue, I’d likely find a story where someone was bludgeoned or strangled with a belt, killed in an alley or dumped near a playground.

You read enough of the same material, all the elements blur together.

It’s near impossible to come up with anything original these days; why should murder be any different?

“You still have that look on your face,” Marley says, displeased. “If you don’t believe me about the first two murders, what makes you so convinced the most recent one is connected to the group?”

“For starters, everything that’s happened to me started in the last two weeks. The murders you are talking about happened two years ago.”

“Not too long after the Mystery Maidens group started. And I know, the stories we’re looking at were written by different members. You, Danielle and April.”

“Are you suggesting it has to be Victoria?”

“Maybe. But that seems too simple,” she says. “All of them would have read the stories. It doesn’t matter who wrote them. My theory is one of the members decided to act out the murders they read about.”

It’s the same theory I’ve proposed about Jessica Wilder’s murder, and the other copycat crimes that took place before, but all those incidents have a clear connection back to me and the black hearts.

If what Marley is suggesting is true, someone was acting out stories before I even joined the group. “Why would they do this?”

“What pushes anyone to commit a crime? Especially random ones. Something psychological beneath the surface.”

I recall my conversations this week with the Maidens.

They each have stressors in their lives.

April’s divorce. Victoria’s married lover.

Danielle’s loneliness. But is any of it enough to push them over the edge, make them start committing murders?

Maybe we’re looking at this puzzle all wrong.

My black hearts stalker and the recent crime spree could be separate crimes, different culprits.

If you add Marley’s theory into the mix, it could be another sequence entirely.

Yet, why are the two suddenly interconnected?

“The first victims were also men,” I say, popping my knuckles. “Why kill a woman this time?”

“Because that was the victim in your story!” Marley says this as though it’s clear and I’m being stupid.

“I get what you’re saying, I do,” I say, feeling the need to calm her before my co-workers come wandering around asking questions. “I’m convinced the Layla story inspired a murder because of the timing. Less than a week after I shared it, a girl was killed in the same manner.”

I tap my knuckles against the third stack, urging Marley to look. She scans the details of my story, cross-referencing them with the information provided in the news article.

“There are more similarities between the Layla story and this murder,” she admits.

“They’re nearly identical.”

A surge of guilt rattles through me, stronger than I’ve ever felt before.

For years, I’ve blamed myself for Layla’s death.

Clearly, the black hearts stalker agrees.

If I’d been more forceful with Layla, told her the truth about why I felt she was in danger, she wouldn’t have died.

Now, because I chose to revisit her story through my writing, Jessica Wilder’s blood is on my hands, too.

At every opportunity to make things right, I’ve floundered, leaving nothing but heartache and tragedy in my wake.

“Maybe so.” She puts the paper flat on the table.

“But that’s not why you’re more passionate about this crime than the others.

It’s because you already knew the Layla crime was based on your friend’s murder.

You have a personal connection to this story, so a new body being found brings it all back. ”

“If I had a reaction every time a woman was found murdered, I’d have been in a nuthouse by now,” I say, my jaw clenched. “Unfortunately, a woman being taken advantage of on her way home isn’t an original concept.”

“The point is you care about your friend. The details of her murder stuck with you. They inspired you to write the story. And the idea that someone took those details and used them to commit a new crime infuriates you.”

Marley has put a lot of research into her theory, but I’ve lived these experiences firsthand.

The wounds from the police and the civil suit are still fresh, even after all these years.

Everyone talking and taking sides. Blaming me.

Clearly, the black hearts stalker still faults me, and I’m not going up against them without more proof.

“We should meet with the Mystery Maidens again,” I say. “Before going to the police.”

“Fine.” Slowly, she begins collecting the papers she brought with her. “It’s just unnerving, isn’t it? Continuing to meet with a group of women when you’re convinced one of them is a killer.”

“We’ve narrowed it down at least,” I say. “Only three left to suss out.”

“Does that mean you no longer consider me a suspect?”

Before I answer, I consider the question.

Marley would be wasting a lot of time swapping information with me if she is the killer.

I’m not sure what her angle would be, or why she’d toy with me in such a personal way.

Regardless, now that we’re closer, it will be easier for me to keep tabs on her.

There’s a feeling in my gut that tells me I still don’t know the full story.

Likewise, she still doesn’t have the full truth from me. I haven’t told her about the black hearts, that the person behind all of this might have been messing with me for the past decade.

“My shift is about to start,” I say, swerving a response. “The next meeting isn’t until Thursday. We’ll touch base before, figure out how we want to play this around the others.”

“Sounds good.” She doesn’t appear disappointed that I didn’t say I trusted her. Odds are, she still has reservations about me, too. “Hey, can I eat back here? I’m absolutely starving.”

“You look tired, too,” I say, watching as she leans into the booth.

“Yeah, well it was hard to sleep last night after everything we talked about,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck.

I can certainly relate. My lack of sleep over the past two weeks has taken its toll.

“I’ll grab you a menu.”

“No need,” she says, securing all her evidence inside her purse. “I’ll take potato skins or buffalo wings. Whatever’s cheapest. This seems like the type of place that would offer both.”

I’m not sure what’s more irritating, the fact Marley can eat whatever she wants and remain a size two, or her dismissive attitude to everything and everyone around her. College kids. It’s enough to make you want to knock them over the head with something.

With a shudder, I recall the brutal deaths we were just talking about and walk back to the main dining room.