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I’ve called Marley three times since last night’s meeting, but she won’t pick up.

I’m pissed. We were supposed to be investigating the group together. She’s the only person who I’ve shared my crazy theory with who didn’t make me feel like I was losing my mind, then she just bails.

I tell myself that Marley is young, unpredictable. Like most college students, she probably got a better offer and didn’t think twice about ditching a bunch of older women. But isn’t what we’re trying to do together bigger than that?

I hop in the shower, promising myself that if Marley doesn’t respond to my calls soon, I’m going to show up at her apartment again. She at least owes me an explanation for why she’s ditched me.

The air inside the apartment tickles my wet flesh. I wrap a robe around myself, folding my towel like a turban atop my head. I reach for my phone, checking to see if Marley got back to me while I was in the shower.

There’s one new notification, but it isn’t from Marley. It’s an email from one of my top-ranked literary agents.

Dear Becca,

Thank you so much for sending your opening pages. I’ve just finished reading and absolutely loved…

Giddy with nerves, I drop my phone. I scramble to the living room and log into my email, needing a full screen to make sure I’m seeing what I think I am.

Sure enough, I have a manuscript request from Victoria Lennox at the Lennox Agency.

I close my eyes. My heart flutters inside my chest as my mind scrolls through possibilities.

Finally, after years and years of struggling, this could be my chance to make something of myself.

The iron-clad door between me and the literary industry is opening.

I click on the email.

Dear Becca,

Thank you so much for sending your opening pages. I’ve just finished reading and absolutely loved them! Your writing is tense and gripping, and I believe readers will be hooked. Please send me the entire manuscript in a Word document.

I’ll get back to you within four weeks. Really looking forward to seeing how Layla receives justice!

Kind regards,

Victoria Lennox

I’m so rattled with excitement, it takes a few moments for the entirety of the message to sink in. Layla? Why would this literary agent even mention her name? Night Beat has nothing to do with Layla.

Confused, I scroll back to the original email. I started querying agents over a month ago, and Victoria Lennox was on that list, yet the most recent email was sent only yesterday. When I click on it, my stomach drops.

Although the message has been sent from my account, this isn’t my original query. In fact, it doesn’t mention Night Beat at all. The query letter describes a book I’ve never written… all about a girl who was murdered and her roommate’s quest to find the killer.

When I click on the attachment, instead of the first ten pages of Night Beat , it’s the first chapter of the short story I wrote about Layla.

My breathing gets heavier, my chest rising and falling rapidly.

I don’t understand. How could someone have used my email address?

I scroll through the Sent Messages tab, hoping Victoria Lennox was the only person targeted.

The sickening feeling in my stomach grows stronger when I see more than a dozen agents have been contacted, all of them sent a copy of the Layla story.

I slam the computer shut and curse, my shouts echoing through the lonely apartment.

For years, I’ve known someone was messing with me, but this?

How did they get access to my private computer?

It rarely leaves the apartment, apart from my biweekly meetings with the Maidens.

Even then, the computer never leaves my sight.

I can’t think of a single opportunity where someone would have been able to use it.

I think back to last night’s meeting. I was distracted.

I remember going to the restroom to cool off when I was feeling overwhelmed, but I couldn’t have been away from my computer for more than a few minutes.

That wouldn’t be enough time for someone to upload my files and send a message from my account, would it? Surely the other women would have seen.

I stake out a table at The Coffee Shop’s outdoor dining area. It’s positioned directly across from both Marley’s apartment and the university’s main crossing point. Since she won’t return any of my calls, catching her here is my best option.

My coffee cup is halfway drained when I spot her. She’s approaching the sidewalk alongside another classmate, a bohemian dressed student who wears her hair in braids, just like Marley. They’re deep in conversation, barely paying attention to me as I cross the street.

“Marley?” I say, my voice innocent. “I thought that was you.”

The light in her face dims when she sees me. Her eyes drift back to her classmate. “Catch you later?”

The student offers a smile before she falls in line with the foot traffic, making her way down the sidewalk. Marley’s smile vanishes once she leaves.

“Are you stalking me now?”

“You didn’t leave me much choice,” I say. “You’ve been ignoring my calls ever since you bailed on the meeting.”

She sighs and looks at the ground. “I know.”

“What’s the point of us meeting up and sharing theories if you’re going to leave me alone to do all the investigating?”

“When that article came out in yesterday’s paper, it worried me. I don’t like how close we’re getting to this.”

“What about your podcast?”

“Screw the podcast. This isn’t a fake story anymore.

It’s not even a real story about people I don’t know.

This is my town. My peers. I’ve been looking into these cases long before you came along.

” She looks up, holding a stack of books close to her chest like they’re armor.

“Truth is, I’m regretting getting involved.

If we really think there’s a killer in our group, we should leave that to the police to sort out. Not us.”

“Easy to say when you’re not the one being targeted.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my recent emails. “Take a look at this.”

She holds the phone, raising a hand to block the glare from the sun. Her mouth moves rapidly as she reads. “What is this? An agent is interested in your manuscript. Congratulations.”

I snatch the phone away and slide it into my back pocket. “Except it’s not for a book I’ve written. Someone hacked into my email and sent out the Layla story to a dozen different literary agents.”

Marley still looks confused. “Why would they do that?”

“For the same reason they slashed my tires and ran over a stranger on my street. One of the women in the group is messing with me, and it’s up to us to figure out who it is.”

“This is far too personal,” she says. “I mean, someone got into your email. You should really go to the police.”

“I can’t!” I say. “Not yet. We’re close to figuring out which Maiden is behind this. I’m just asking for your help.”

Begrudgingly, Marley accompanies me over the street to The Coffee Shop.

She sits across from me, placing her textbooks on the ground by our feet.

It’s not like she has some investigative gift, but she’s the only person who even half-heartedly believes my theory that something bad is taking place with the group, and I need her reassurance to keep me from going crazy.

“How would someone have access to your email?” she asks. “I’m guessing you’ve already tried to pin it down.”

“I know I went to the bathroom at the last meeting,” I say.

“I was frustrated you didn’t show, and the others could tell there was something wrong with me.

Still, I couldn’t have been gone for more than five minutes.

I don’t think that would have been enough time for someone to hack my computer without the others seeing. ”

“Okay, then they must have accessed the story another way,” she says. “Could one of them have gotten into your apartment?”

I consider the question. Things have been in disarray lately, but I could easily chalk that up to having a roommate for the first time in a decade. On the other hand, someone could have been going through my things, and I’d never know because I’d assume it was Crystal moving around.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “It’s possible. Whoever is doing this is going to extreme lengths.”

“Think about your writing specifically. Is there any way someone can access your stories without using your computer?”

It’s like a buzzer going off in my head. “The shared drive.”

“What?”

“I almost forgot about it.” I pull my laptop closer and begin typing furiously. “The Mystery Maidens have a shared folder we use for completed stories. Sometimes we upload our work there so we can critique each other during the week.”

“Is the Layla story there?”

It only takes a few clicks for me to find it. “Yes. I upload everything to the drive as a backup, but all the Maidens have access.”

“So, if that’s the case, all they’d need is your email password and they’re good to go.”

“That’s still hard to figure out.”

“Is it?” She tilts her head to the side. “Most people have shit security.”

My confidence deflates when I realize she’s right. I certainly haven’t put much thought into my passwords. For almost all of them it’s Password123 . If someone was driven enough, and I suspect whoever is targeting me is, they could have hacked into my account with ease.

“Okay, so they guess my email password. They download the story from the group’s shared drive. Now they can use my account to contact as many agents as they want.”

“They could still have broken into your apartment.”

“Could have.” I stare at the computer screen, thinking. “This shared drive has been around longer than I’ve been in the group.” I can scroll back and see manuscripts from more than two years ago.

“Including the stories Victoria shared with her class?” she asks. I nod. “Then any of the group members can download whatever they want for inspiration. We can show all this to the police?—”

“Marley, no.”

“Don’t you see how dangerous this is getting? For you, especially. I mean, everything that’s happened so far relates back to you.” She lowers her voice. “They even murdered someone in the same way your college roommate was killed.”

“Exactly. It all relates back to me,” I say. “The cops will think I’m guilty.”

“You don’t know that. Besides, I’ll back you up. You might even have an alibi for when the murder was committed.”

Problem is, I don’t. I spent that night alone at the apartment. Even Crystal wouldn’t be able to vouch for me.

“Just give me a little bit longer,” I say. “Come to the next meeting. Between the two of us, we can figure out who is doing this.”

Marley leans back and looks down into her lap. “I’m not sure I’m up for it.”

“What’s gotten into you? The other night you were more passionate about this than I was. What’s changed?”

“Maybe I realized it’s more satisfying reading about the aftermath of a crime than investigating it in real-time.”

But that’s not it. There’s something else there, a hidden agenda that Marley is reluctant to share. Even if I can’t trust her fully, she’s the closest thing I have to an ally.

“I’ll go to the police, okay? I just need a little more time first.”

“Just be careful.” She nods as she stands. “And in the meantime, leave me out of this.”