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THIRTY-THREE

Marley has always been right: this is personal.

I realize too late that there’s another potential suspect, one who would have much easier access to my life than the group and with an equally strong connection to what happened ten years ago.

These bizarre attacks started after I wrote the Layla story, and who would be more connected to that event than Crystal?

Layla, Crystal and I were inseparable. Roommates. The Friends of WU. Until Layla was taken from us, and we’ve blamed ourselves ever since. What if I miscalculated, and Crystal blames me for our friend’s death more than I ever realized?

Could Crystal have been the one sending the black hearts?

The one I received in my mailbox appeared not long after she moved in.

Another black heart preceded my breakup with Jasper, an event that brought Crystal and I closer together.

And a black heart was attached to the floral arrangement she brought into our apartment.

She could have been strategically leaving them for me all along.

Aside from the hearts, Crystal has easier access to my belongings than the other Maidens.

She could have hacked into my email and opened the shared drive to access our other manuscripts.

I recall her anger when she first read the Layla story.

Of course, that’s only when I thought she read it.

What if she saw the story on my computer earlier and reading it sent her over the edge from stalking to murder?

A soft drizzle dampens my hair and jacket as I march home, but the fiery adrenaline inside protects me against the cold.

It’s nearing nine o’clock, around the time Crystal usually heads out for the evening, dazzled up in expensive clothes and flashy accessories.

At least, that’s where I think she’s been going.

What if her frequent absences are because she’s out framing me for crimes?

I need to catch her before she leaves, so that I can confront her.

Sure enough, when I arrive home, I find Crystal in the small hallway bathroom, tracing burgundy liner around her lips. She catches my eye in the mirror.

“You’re home early,” she says.

“Can we talk?”

Glimpsing my reflection, I see a frazzled woman, cheeks red with cold, still bundled up in wet layers, multiple bags hanging off my arms. Crystal notices the distress in my face.

She exits the bathroom, taking a seat at the dining-room table.

She stretches the hem of her short velvet dress as she sits.

“Did something happen?”

I’m too energized to sit, so I pace the short distance between the table and the kitchen counter. “Something has been happening to me. For weeks, now. You already know that.”

“Are you talking about the black hearts again?” Crystal is apprehensive.

“It’s more than that, and you know it.” I pause, watching her reaction closely. “And it all started after I wrote the Layla story.”

As usual, her posture stiffens at the sound of our friend’s name. She cocks her head to the side, waiting. “Okay…”

“A few days ago, I found out someone hacked into my email. They sent messages to a dozen different literary agents using my account.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“It’s another way to mess with me. No one has access to my computer. Except you.” I shrug my shoulders, my arms flapping against my sides. “You’re the only person who has been around for everything that’s happened these past ten years.”

She pulls back, like a marionette doll whose string has been yanked. “I’m sorry, are you accusing me of hacking into your email? And doing all that other stuff? The black hearts?”

“We both know you went through my computer once,” I say, holding eye contact.

“We’ve already talked about that, and I apologized. I thought we’d moved on, but clearly you still don’t trust me.”

“Just answer my question,” I say, my voice sharp. “Are you the one who has been sending me the black hearts? Doing everything else?”

She gasps in disbelief. “Wow, Becca. Are we really doing this right now? I told you I’ve been getting the stupid heart messages, too. You saw the flowers.”

Yes, but I can’t be sure her explanation is true. Maybe it was just another threat. Remember . A message within the walls of my own apartment.

“Answer the question,” I say.

“No.” Her tone is resolute. “We’re best friends. Why would you even think I would do those things?”

“Because of Layla!” I don’t mean to shout, but my voice is so loud and raw, it startles us both. “You blame me for what happened to her. For years, you’ve been torturing me with the black heart messages, and after reading the Layla story, you decided to take things a step further.”

“I was upset about the story, and I confronted you about it,” she says. “That’s what adults do. They don’t slash tires and hack into emails. Let alone actually hurt people, like the poor woman on our street. How do you know everything that’s been happening isn’t a coincidence?”

“It’s not! Someone is punishing me, and it all ties into what happened back then.” I sling my bags onto the table, rustling through one until I find the article that was left at Banyon’s Bridge. “Someone even left this for me.”

Hesitantly, she takes the article and reads it, her face hardening. “Why would you think I did that?”

“Someone did, and you’re the only one with a connection?—”

“We don’t even talk about her anymore!” Crystal shouts. “In the past ten years, we’ve barely brought up that night, and now you’ve mentioned her twice in the past week. You’re writing stories about what happened. It’s like you’re obsessed.”

“That’s because someone?—”

“No, Becca. No one is out to get you. You’re just refusing to move on. You’ve let Layla’s death ruin everything for you, and for what reason? Doing nothing with your life is not going to bring her back.”

My teeth grind and my fists clench. “It’s not as easy for everyone to move on like nothing happened.”

“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?”

“You certainly don’t act like you’re in mourning.

I mean, look at you now. All dolled up and ready for fun.

Sleeping around with other people’s husbands.

You’ve got your big smiling face on a billboard on the interstate.

Even when your engagement implodes, you land on your feet like nothing happened. ”

“That’s because I’m resilient. When life gets hard, I find a way through because that’s the only way.

It doesn’t mean I’m not hurting about Layla and Thomas and all of it.

” She’s standing now, a splotch of red climbing her neck as her anger builds.

“What’s the other option? Just totally give up, like you’ve done? ”

“I’m not giving up?—”

“Then what are you doing? You quit college after she died. You’ve not been able to hold down a job.

You say you want to be a writer, but that isn’t going anywhere.

If you’re not pining for the past, you’re consumed by these fake stories in your head.

You’re living in these worlds that don’t exist because that’s easier than moving on. ”

As eager as I am to respond, I know part of what she’s saying is true.

The argument between myself and Crystal goes much deeper than accusing her of messing with me.

Our history has bound us to one another, and yet makes us resentful at the same time.

No one will ever understand the guilt we carry from that night and seeing each other is a constant reminder.

“You’re the only person in my life now who knew me back then,” I say. “Who else could it be?”

“I already told you,” she says. “Layla’s parents.”

“I talked to Layla’s parents! Her mom, anyway. She said it wasn’t her.”

“And you believe her over me?” She laughs cruelly. “This is outrageous.”

“We were the only ones there that night?—”

“That’s not true! There was an entire bar full of people.”

“Everything that’s happened in the past two weeks has been directed at me, not you,” I say. “Besides, if someone else was there that night, they’d surely blame you over me.”

Her posture straightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were the one who was drunk. If you’d been able to take care of yourself, we wouldn’t have had to leave in the first place.”

It’s a weak argument. A cruel one. I know it as soon as the words leave my lips, especially because I still hold so much blame against myself, but I’m wounded at the idea of my friend being my tormentor.

All this time I’ve been investigating people I barely know, it might be the person who knows me best behind it all.

“I can’t believe you’d say that to me.” The anger in her tone is gone, replaced with sadness. “I’ve always figured you felt that way, but I can’t believe you actually said it. You chose to leave with me. You could have stayed behind.”

“I was trying to take care of you.”

“You needed to take care of Layla!” The anger returns in full force. “Would you like to know what I’ve been holding in for the past ten years? My disgust that you knew what Michael was capable of, but you still left her behind.”

Of course, it had all come out in the investigation, as soon as Michael Massey was named a suspect.

They brought us his name, his picture, wanted to know if we had ever seen him before.

I’d told the truth. That I thought he’d tried to attack me once, and that I’d warned Layla about him that night, but she didn’t believe me.

“I tried to protect Layla,” I say.

“You fought with her and left. If you really thought he was a threat, nothing should have made you leave. Especially not me.”

“I told her he was dangerous.”

“Did you tell her he attacked you?” We wait in silence, for an answer we both know isn’t coming.

“You didn’t. You didn’t tell us about it even when it happened.

You should have been more forceful, Becca.

Even in the middle of a disagreement, Layla would have believed you if you told her he attacked you. ”

“I tried. I just couldn’t!”

“When it comes to me, you’re right about a lot of things. I was reckless and selfish. Just a normal college kid. But at least I had the courage to stand my ground. You didn’t, and Layla died because of it.”

“You don’t mean that,” I say under my breath, turning so she can’t see my face.

I wonder whether these are just vicious insults she’s hurling, or if she actually believes what she’s saying.

I wonder if she’s right. If that’s what has really been torturing me all these years.

My weakness. If I’d been honest about what Michael tried to do to me—the way I was to the police after her death, the way I was last week with Victoria—maybe none of this would have happened.

I’d kept the secret, but why? To protect him?

To protect some image I had of myself? Whatever the reason, it left Layla defenseless, and she paid the price for all our faults.

Crystal stomps into her room, coming out seconds later with a bag over her shoulder. “I’m crashing at a friend’s place for the night. I’ll be out of here by next week.”

“Crystal, no. I don’t?—”

“You just accused me of stalking you,” she says. “You’d be crazy to still want me here.”

I realize, all too late, that I let Marley get into my head.

Sure, Crystal’s motive might be more personal than the rest, but I also know her better than all the other Maidens.

There are elements of their lives that remain unclear.

I’ve had a front row seat to Crystal’s life for the past decade, for better or worse.

Did I really think she’d be this vindictive?

Did I really think she was capable of stalking and murder?

Now that I’ve thrown these accusations out there, even if I didn’t tell her about the worst parts, our relationship will never be the same.

“I still want you here, Crystal,” I say.

“Well, I don’t want to be here.” She stands at the front door. “And if you haven’t completely lost your mind, and what you’re saying is true, it sounds like it’s no longer safe here.”

She swings open the front door but takes a step back when she sees two men standing in the hallway. I move closer, seeing Detectives Chaz and Wooley are right outside my door.

“Who the hell are you?” Crystal asks, hateful.

Wooley raises a badge. “We’re here to see Becca.”

As though our argument wasn’t bad enough, the presence of police at my apartment unsettles her even more. She looks back at me, an expression of disbelief on her face.

“I’ll let you know when I’ll be back to get my things,” she says.

The officers step aside, and she walks down the hallway and out of my life.