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THIRTY-TWO

On Monday morning, I wake up in my bed, too riddled with exhaustion to get up. As it has all weekend, my mind revisits the conversation with the police on repeat, trying to make sense of what they told me and what it means.

Darryl Nease was pushed from the bridge that night. The very same man I saw rummaging through the trash. When I picture him in my mind now, each detail comes through with complete clarity. His ragged clothes and frostbitten fingertips, the nervous but kind smile he displayed when I approached him.

I recall the anxiety and paranoia I felt when I saw another person on the bridge, how I’d leapt into action, not wanting an innocent person’s murder on my conscience.

It was all in vain.

Little did I know, when I was storming off to confront Marley, someone else was at the bridge, waiting.

Or maybe they came back several hours later, and poor Darryl just happened to be making his way across again.

Either way, he was murdered, and if it weren’t for my stupid story trying to lure the killer out of hiding, he’d still be alive.

Another person dead on account of my stupid mistakes.

As if that tragedy wasn’t enough, now it appears the police view me as a suspect.

Video surveillance captured me at the scene, and even though that same recording shows me leaving the bridge shortly after midnight, Wooley and Chaz implied I could have easily come back later, suggested maybe I was only surveying the area so I could pick the precise time and location for the crime.

Neither officer told me if another person was caught on camera.

Even if they were, that doesn’t leave me much hope.

Whoever is behind this has been one step ahead of me this entire time.

The message and article were planted for me to find.

An excerpt of Murder at the Bridge was placed in the victim’s coat pocket to further implicate me.

I pointed out that if I were the killer I wouldn’t have left the story behind, but Chaz and Wooley never once dropped their guarded demeanor.

With a shudder, I imagine what the last few moments of Darryl Nease’s life must have been like.

Cold. Confused. Was he hopeful that a kind stranger was sparing him a few extra bucks, not realizing that it was really a twisted criminal handing over my story?

Who hates me so much that they would kill a defenseless man so cruelly?

As Marley said in our last meeting, this is getting too personal.

She has no idea.

I kill hours watching mindless videos on my phone, every now and then scanning the local news to see if any other mysterious crimes have occurred that mirror any of my stories.

Nothing notable. I did receive another manuscript request yesterday, but it was for one of the forged Layla emails.

What are the odds that the only story that’s brought me a small modicum of success was one never meant to be shared with others?

Knuckles rap against my bedroom door. “Becca, you in there?”

Crystal pokes her head into the room. As usual, her hair and makeup are perfectly styled and she’s wearing a stylish jumpsuit. She frowns when she sees me.

“You feeling okay?”

“I think I have the flu,” I lie, lacking the energy to tell her anything else.

“Poor thing. Steer clear from me.” She takes a step backward. “I just stopped by for lunch. I thought I saw your car parked outside. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Just need some rest.” I pick up my phone again and begin scrolling. “I’ll join the world eventually.”

“Also, there was a note for you in the mailbox. I left it on the counter,” she says. “I’m heading out.”

She closes the door behind her, afraid I’ll contaminate her with my imaginary germs. As soon as I hear the front lock click, I enter the kitchen, looking for the note.

The paper is folded over and taped at the ends so no one else can read it.

My heart flutters like a caged bird, afraid of seeing yet another black heart.

When I unfold it, there’s a single handwritten message.

Why are you ignoring me? – M

Marley. Ever since my conversation with the police, I haven’t felt up to talking to anyone, even her. I understand why she ditched me at the last meeting now. This is all getting too much. I should have followed her lead and bowed out, but I didn’t, and now there’s even more death targeted at me.

Marley strikes me as the type of person who doesn’t like being ignored, regardless of the fact she ghosted me first. Still, why is she following me now?

Because I rejected a few phone calls? There’s something about her I still don’t fully trust, not that I’m able to trust anything, including my own judgement.

If for no other reason than I hope she’ll leave me alone, I call her.

“It’s about time,” she says when she answers. “You stalk me outside of my apartment and then go totally MIA.”

“I needed some space,” I say. “I talked to the police on Saturday, and it wasn’t a great conversation.”

“Yeah. Well, join the club.”

I sit up straighter in bed. “What do you mean?”

“The police have talked to all of us.”

“ Us ?”

“Yes. The other Maidens, too. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from them.”

Marley isn’t the only person I’ve ignored. All my calls have gone to voicemail and messages ignored as I’ve spent the day trying to decide my next move.

“What did the police talk to them about?” I ask.

“I’m guessing they’ll tell you all about it at tonight’s meeting.”

“I’m not going.” I fall back onto the pillows, staring up at the yellowed ceiling. “I can’t, Marley. Especially now.”

“You have to, Becca. Not only is everyone pissed, but this could be our chance to figure out which member of the group is behind this.”

“I don’t care anymore,” I shout into the phone. I take a deep breath, collecting myself. “The police were talking to me like I was a suspect. A man was murdered at the bridge because of me.”

“Don’t you want to find out who did it?”

That poor man’s face appears in my mind again, my stomach clenching. There’s so much I don’t know about what’s happening, but I know this: two strangers have died because of me. No, rather, to get to me.

“I do.”

“Then man up and come to the meeting. I’ll be there with you this time. I promise,” she says. “I think you’re going to need the backup.”

I’m not surprised I’m the last to arrive, but I wince at the idea they’ve had plenty of time to discuss the situation without me. Everyone is so deep in conversation, they barely acknowledge me when I join their table.

“So, what do you think the police are getting at? They’ve talked to all of us,” Victoria says, turning to me. “Have you talked to them, too?”

I nod, refusing to make eye contact with any of them.

“Clearly they think there’s some connection between our stories and the crimes,” Danielle says.

“That’s ridiculous,” April adds. “I mean, we’re a bunch of writers. Not criminal masterminds.”

“I think they’re just exploring all avenues,” Marley says.

“But who brought their attention to us in the first place?” April asks.

It’s then I realize that the others don’t know I’m the one who first went to the police about the copycat crimes.

Of course, that was before events took a deadly turn with Jessica Wilder’s murder.

The police still haven’t made a connection between that crime and the death of my former roommate.

They’ve only questioned the other group members about our stories, so I try to act as shocked as the rest of the women about what’s unfolding.

Across the table, Marley stares directly at me, silently warning me not to say too much.

“They must have gotten their hands on our writing,” I say. “That’s the only thing that explains it.”

“But how?” April asks. “We’re a small group. Some of our stories have been published, but those aren’t even the ones they were asking about.”

“How would anyone outside of this group have access?” Danielle asks.

“We think we might know,” Marley chimes in. “The shared drive.”

“Everything I write auto-saves to the drive, and we all have access,” I say. “So, even if one of us isn’t responsible, it’s someone who has access to the drive.”

“No one even knows the password to my computer,” April says.

“Same here,” says Danielle.

“I use the drive on campus,” Victoria says. “That’s how I share our stories with students.”

“What do you mean?” April asks, confused.

“Sometimes I use our stories in my creative writing classes,” Victoria says. There’s a nervous quavering in her voice, as though she fears she’s overstepped. “It’s only for learning purposes.”

“You never told us that,” I say, even though I’d already learned as much from Marley.

“It’s important for my students to be exposed to new, fresh stories,” Victoria says.

“She only uses them as a learning tool,” Marley says, jumping to her teacher’s defense. “Promise.”

“Didn’t you think to ask us first?” Danielle asks, her voice as bitter as the rest of ours.

“I should have asked permission first.” Victoria tips her chin, trying to refocus the conversation to the problem at hand. “Regardless, my students don’t have direct access to our drive, but it’s possible someone could have logged into my computer on campus and seen them.”

“Whoever is behind this is doing a lot more than just reading your stories,” Marley says. “They’re acting them out.”

“Let’s regroup, go over everything we know,” Victoria says. “Treat this like we would one of our crime novels.”

“There’s been two murders,” Danielle says. “A woman died, like Becca’s The Mistake story. And a man was killed at Banyon’s Bridge.”

“Just like another one of Becca’s stories,” April says, almost under her breath.