Page 41

THIRTY-FOUR

“Did we come at a bad time?” Chaz says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Does it matter?”

I turn on my heels, retreating to the dining-room table. I plop into the hard-wooden chair, waiting for the detectives to follow.

“Is she one of the writers in your group?” Wooley asks, nodding in the direction of where Crystal once stood.

“She’s my roommate.” I stare at the crumbs on the table’s surface, half-whispering to myself, “At least, she was.”

“You’re having a rough couple of weeks,” Chaz says.

“Tell me about it.” I sigh, raising my head to meet the detectives’ stare. “I know you’re not here to check on my wellbeing. So, why are you here?”

“We have a couple of updates we want to run by you,” Wooley says, sitting, without invitation, in the seat beside me. “Remind us, what was the first murder you believe had a connection to your little group?”

The heavy amount of skepticism behind the words murder and little make me cringe. I slide my hands beneath my crossed legs, trying to keep my temper contained.

“The woman who was killed two weeks ago,” I say. “Jessica Wilder.”

“She was found by campus, not far off from The Cantina, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “And before you ask, I’ve never been.”

Wooley laughs. “Don’t worry. We didn’t catch you on surveillance this time. We did, however, receive another one of your stories.”

Behind him, Chaz reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Ziploc bag with papers inside. They place it in front of me, but I don’t need to look to know what the pages are. The Mistake . When I do sneak a look, I see a black heart plastered to the front of the manuscript.

“Did you write this?” he asks.

“Where did you get it?” I ask.

“Someone left it at the station. An anonymous tip relating to Jessica Wilder’s murder.”

I close my eyes, too weak to remain stoic in front of them. I can feel their gaze on me, judging, searching.

“Answer the question, please,” Wooley says. “Did you write it?”

“Yes.”

“This is our dilemma. We now have two bodies on our hands, the causes of death closely mirroring two different stories written by you.”

“I know how it looks,” I say. “But I didn’t do it.”

“Someone who has read your stories did?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” I breathe through my nose, trying to remain calm. “I have no idea why they’re framing me.”

“Except, with this second story, it doesn’t just relate to one murder.” Chaz reaches into his pocket again, retrieving another Ziploc bag. “It’s very similar to another death from ten years ago.”

I glance down, only for a second, seeing the same Layla article that was left for me at Banyon’s Bridge.

“This newspaper clipping was with the story,” Wooley adds.

They know about Layla. They know that I wrote the story about an actual murder, and that a copycat killing took place soon after. Between those details and the video surveillance of me at Banyon’s Bridge, their insinuations are clear.

“You’re a crime writer, right?” Wooley says, that heavy dose of skepticism returning. “If you were us, what would you think?”

“That I’m so lost in grief over my roommate’s death from ten years ago, I snapped and started killing people?” I shake my head at the suggestion.

“Sounds like a far-fetched storyline if you ask me,” Wooley says.

“It also looks like you have trouble keeping roommates,” Chaz adds, flitting his eyes to the front door where Crystal just left.

“I don’t know what to say.” It’s the truth. I can’t deny how suspicious everything looks, and I can’t find the words to convince them that I’m not involved. “I didn’t do this.”

“Three murders. All with a connection to you,” Wooley says.

“Layla’s murderer is behind bars. Michael Massey.” His name leaves a bad taste in my mouth, my body shuddering at the memory of him. “You can’t accuse me of killing her.”

“You were with her the night she died,” Chaz says. “I’d still call that a pretty strong connection.”

“My friend died, and I wrote a story about her death to cope. I had absolutely nothing to do with Jessica’s murder. And I already told you, I wrote the story about Banyon’s Bridge to try and catch the killer. I’m not looking for inspiration to kill.”

“Right. It’s someone else from your group,” Chaz says.

“Why don’t you look into it?” I say. “I know you already spoke with them, but you’re talking to me like I’m your only suspect. I wrote those stories, but the other women had access to them, and it wouldn’t be hard for one of them to frame me.”

“We’re looking into all of them,” Wooley says. “It’s not our fault more evidence pointing to you ends up at our station.”

“And why do you think that is?” I ask. “Because someone wants you to think it’s me!”

“If it makes you feel better,” Chaz says, “you’re not the only member of your group connected to a murder.”

“What?”

Wooley pulls a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and flips open the cover. “Marley Theroux. She’s in the group, right?”

“Yes,” I say, holding my breath.

“Her brother was murdered over a year ago.”

“What?” I move closer to the table, desperate to read through his notebook and learn all the details.

“Yep. Brandon. He was bludgeoned to death leaving a bar.”

As though in slow motion, I sit back, the pieces falling into place before me. That’s the first murder Marley investigated. The one she believes put this chain of murders into motion.

“I do know something about that,” I say.

Chaz looks at me, surprised.

“You two might think I’m crazy, but Marley believes the connection between the group’s stories and murders happened long before any of the crimes you’re talking about. She believes it started with his death.”

Chaz pulls out the chair across from me and sits, pulling out his own notepad and pen. “Explain.”

I start over, telling them the entire story from the beginning.

The real beginning, according to Marley.

I’m not the only person who believes this far-fetched theory.

Marley does, too. It’s the reason she joined the Mystery Maidens in the first place.

Two other murders that linked back to the group before anyone started messing with me.

The detectives remain quiet as I talk, writing down increasingly confusing and far-fetched information. It’s clear they’re not making sense of things any better than I have these past couple of weeks. All I know is that these murders are no longer only connected to me.

They’re personal for Marley, too.