Page 37

THIRTY-ONE

I’m not able to make good on my promise to reach out to the police. Before I’m given the chance, they approach me.

When I see Chaz standing by the entrance to Mario’s Pizzeria, I assume he’s coming in for an early dinner. I barely notice the person standing next to him, an older man in a stiff brown suit, until he displays a dull brass badge.

“Becca, mind if we have a word with you?”

I look between the detective holding the badge and Chaz. “I’m about to start my shift.”

“We’ve already talked with your manager, Nikki,” the man says. “She’s understanding. Even offered us the back booth so we can have some privacy.”

No one has ever described Nikki as understanding. She’s probably eaten up with curiosity and glee at the idea of police officers showing up to speak with me. Again, I look at Chaz, but his eyes remain on the ground as we go inside.

We’re sitting in the back of the restaurant, the same place I sat with Marley to go over our potential theories. Something about this meeting feels different, the stakes raised. It’s intimidating talking to law enforcement, even if you’re sure you’ve done nothing wrong.

Chaz sits across from me in the booth, still staring at his hands. The other officer pulls a chair to the end of the table and sits. “I’m Detective Wooley,” he says. “I understand you already know my partner.”

“He comes in a couple nights a week,” I say, staring at Chaz until he finally raises his head and acknowledges me. “What can I help you with, officers?”

“Chaz said you shared a theory with him,” Wooley says, leaning closer. “I’d like to hear it.”

My nerves relax. Perhaps, after further consideration, Chaz decided my idea wasn’t that far-fetched after all.

“You see, I’m in this writing group,” I explain, rambling through the basic dynamics of our group, including Marley, the newest member.

Chaz already knows these details, but I explain to Detective Wooley the pattern I noticed between the slashed tires and the hit-and-run, how each crime mirrored one of the stories shared in group.

I don’t yet present Marley’s theory, that this person might have started murdering more than a year ago.

Or that I’ve made another connection between the story I wrote and the murder of Jessica Wilder last week.

I’m afraid if I give them too much information all at once, they’ll become overwhelmed and laugh me out of the room.

“So, this group. You meet once, twice a week?” Chaz asks.

“This month we’ve met twice,” I say. “For NaNoWriMo.”

“What?” Officer Wooley asks.

“We’ve upped our number of meetings because we’re all trying to write a novel in one month’s time.”

“So, it’s like a contest?” Wooley asks.

“More like a challenge,” I say, fearing we’re moving off topic. “Anyway, we’ve already met twice this week.”

“Have you noticed any connections between stories shared at the meetings and any recent crimes?”

“No,” I answer, honestly. I was so flustered by Marley’s absence I hardly paid attention though. “I’m starting to think maybe whoever is behind this knows I’m onto them.”

“What makes you think that?” Chaz asks. “Have you received any more of those strange messages? The black hearts?”

“Not exactly.”

Now should be when I tell them about the similarities between Jessica Wilder’s death and the story I wrote, but I don’t want to implicate myself. Before I can add anything else, Detective Wooley says, “Do you spend a lot of time at Banyon’s Bridge?”

My insides still, my mind going back to that cold November night I staked out that precise location, waiting for a murder to happen.

“I was there earlier this week, actually.”

“Huh,” Wooley says, but he doesn’t sound very surprised. “For any particular reason?”

“I wrote a story as a way to try and catch the killer in the act.” I look down, fully aware of how ridiculous it sounds. “It was about a man being pushed off a bridge.”

“Why would you do that?” Chaz asks, more animated than his partner.

“I’d already come to you with my theory, and you didn’t take it seriously,” I say. “I figured the only way I could convince you was to prove it.”

“So, you wrote a story to trigger one of your group members?”

“I thought they might try to re-enact the story,” I say, “and I’d be able to catch them.”

“Nearby security cameras show you were at the bridge on Monday night.”

Cameras? Why would they be looking at cameras? Why would they be looking for me?

“That’s right,” I say. “I went there hoping to catch one of the other group members, but no one showed.”

“Are you aware that someone did die on the bridge that night?”

It’s as though all the liquid inside my body has turned cold, hardening, until my entire body is heavy with dread. “What?”

He pulls out a picture. “Do you recognize this man?”

I do, instantly. It’s the homeless man I saw rummaging through the trash that night. I got a good look at his face right before I found the article on the lamppost.

“Yes, he was there.”

“His name is Darryl Nease,” the detective says. “Can you tell us anything else about him?”

“Not really. He was still there when I left.”

“Around what time was that?” Chaz asks.

“Midnight.”

“That lines up with the video footage we reviewed,” Wooley says. “Problem is, this man was pushed to his death close to two a.m.”

I shove the picture away, no longer able to stomach looking at a man who, the last time I saw him, was completely fine. “Did you see someone on camera?”

“No, there aren’t any cameras on the bridge itself. He’d washed up on the bank of the river. You haven’t seen it in the papers because we were waiting to track down a next of kin, which can be hard with the homeless.”

“How do you know he was pushed?”

“We don’t,” Wooley says. “He could have easily fallen or even jumped. But we did find something curious in his jacket pocket.”

He pulls out another photo. It seems to be all the items collected from the victim. Right next to his switchblade and bottle caps is a typed manuscript.

“You’re saying the man died with this on him?” I ask, my voice beginning to break.

“Yes,” Wooley says, looking down at the picture, reading the title of the manuscript. “At the top, it says Murder at the Bridge by Becca Walsh. Is that your story?”

“Yes.” I’m breathless.

Wooley nods, his eyes narrowing. “Any idea how it got into the hands of a dead man?”