Page 42

THIRTY-FIVE

The curb beside Marley’s apartment is near deserted.

It dawns on me Thanksgiving is right around the corner; most students must be getting a head start on the holiday.

Mom hasn’t mentioned me joining her in New England again.

I wonder if she isn’t relieved I turned down her invitation.

Nothing more stifling than a not-so-happy family gathering around a stuffed dinner table.

I exit the car, leaving behind worries about my family and the approaching holidays.

I’m here to confront Marley. All along, I sensed there was something she was withholding, and I finally know what that is.

She’s not some true-crime junkie who stumbled upon a strange string of murders.

Her brother was the first victim, which makes her just as invested in this as I am, maybe even more so.

There’s an accompanying sense of relief, too.

Maybe all this bloodshed and loss isn’t targeted at me alone.

Layla’s death and the black hearts play a substantial role, but whoever is doing this must have other motives.

Marley’s balcony is empty. I suppose I have the chilly November weather to thank for that. I buzz her number at the apartment’s entrance, hoping Marley hasn’t packed up and left town like the rest of her classmates.

After several seconds, a voice rises from the intercom: “Yeah?” I recognize it instantly.

“Marley, it’s Becca,” I say. “We need to talk.”

A beat passes, and I wonder if she’s going to ring me in or ignore me entirely. The intercom remains silent, but a few seconds later, there’s the blaring buzzer of the front door unlocking.

I climb the steps to Marley’s third-floor flat.

The building has clearly been renovated, oily iron edging the exposed brickwork in the stairwell.

There aren’t many units in the complex, fewer neighbors than even I have.

As I rap against the front door, I wonder, does Marley have roommates?

Does she live alone? There’s so little I know about her, and the few details I do have could all potentially be lies.

The door swings open. Marley stands in the doorway, her hair in a disheveled bun atop her head.

Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, dulling her otherwise youthful skin.

For the first time since I’ve met her, Marley isn’t lighting up the room.

Was she ever that effervescent, or was I only wanting her to be?

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice as dull and dry as the rest of her.

“We need to talk about Brandon,” I say.

It’s important to use his name, I think.

We’re no longer dealing with fiction. No longer dealing with people far removed from our real lives, on the other side of a computer screen or in a newspaper article.

Brandon was her brother, and Marley believes he was murdered by the same person who threatened me and committed the copycat killings. I want to know why.

She turns, leaving the door open, a silent invitation to enter.

Inside, her apartment is as chic as I might have suspected.

Gilded framed portraits of musicians litter the living-room walls.

Beneath her television is a vintage record player, a massive collection of discs displayed under it.

Her furniture is minimalist, all clear glass and sharp edges.

The only thing that seems out of place in this perfectly curated apartment is the melancholy resident.

“When did you talk to the police?” she asks, sitting in one of the narrow chairs in the living room.

“Last night,” I say. “Whoever is behind this sent them more evidence tying me to the murders.”

“And are the police buying it?”

I shrug my shoulders, wandering over to another chair in the room.

I sit, struggling to make myself comfortable.

“Hard to say. They can’t deny the information that’s in front of them, but I do think they’re starting to question why everything’s been given to them.

All that’s missing is a tidy freaking bow.

” My smile fades quickly. “Anyway, they now have a copy of The Mistake . They know about Layla’s death.

When they dug into the group, they found out about your brother. ”

Marley stares out the window overlooking her balcony, the same place where I found her that night after the bridge. She looks at the street below with longing, never once acknowledging anything I’ve said. Finally, she speaks.

“My brother was my hero,” she says. “A cliché, I know. Sounds like the type of thing a person would only say after their brother was brutally murdered. For me, it was true, from the time we were kids. Whatever Brandon did, I was only a few steps behind him, trying to copy his every move.

“He was smart. Like, freakishly so. He understood how to write code at a young age. Won loads of awards at school. I was known around our community as Brandon’s little sister, but that never made me bitter.

I was proud to be his sister. Proud just to grow up in the same world as him.

Everyone who knew him felt that way, convinced he would do really great things one day. ”

“He lit up the room,” I say, the words escaping before I have the chance to stop myself.

She laughs painfully. “He really did. Why is it always the best people that get taken too soon?”

The way she describes her brother, I can picture him. His smile, his impact on Marley. In many ways, he sounds like Layla. Their interests were different, their personalities unique. It’s the effect they had on those around them. A special type of magic.

“Because he was so smart, he got a full ride to WU,” Marley continues, her voice hardening.

“He was two years older than me, and I knew the moment he received his acceptance letter, I’d follow him.

That was the plan, anyway. Until he went barhopping one night during his freshman year and never came home.

” Marley looks up, her glare piercing something inside of me. “You know what happened next.”

We went over each gruesome detail when Marley met me at the pizzeria. Brandon was the first death in a string of killings pulled from the Mystery Maidens’ stories.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was your brother?”

“I had to treat his death like I would any other mystery. Be objective. That meant locking away the memories of Brandon, my brother. It’s the only way I can obsess over this day in and day out without losing my mind.”

I study her now, her sallow complexion, her ill-fitting clothes.

She’s been trying to separate the case from her personal life, but it’s taken its toll, stripping away her energy.

It’s likely why she ditched me at last week’s meeting; it was all becoming too real.

She’s talked to the police multiple times now, Brandon’s death likely being brought up.

The fact that her brother died, was possibly the first victim of the killer, is impossible to ignore.

“So, there’s no podcast?”

She laughs. “No podcast. That’s just the story I came up with. It’s easier than admitting the truth.”

“You joined our group because you believe one of the members killed your brother?”

“Yes. Everything else I told you is still true. I first noticed the similarities between the murders and the short stories in Victoria’s creative writing class.

I put together that those stories came from the Mystery Maidens group.

” She crosses her arms over her body as though protecting herself.

“Now you know why it was easy for me to catch the similarities. When I first read the story, all I could picture was my brother’s murder.

For about a week, I convinced myself it was coincidence.

Just the grief talking. But when I read the second story about the man strangled in the park, I thought, what are the odds? ”

If the murders had stopped there, I would have likely blown her off. Anyone would. But that was before someone slashed my tires and hacked into my email. Before someone started leaving printouts of my short stories at crime scenes. Before Jessica Wilder and Darryl Nease were murdered.

“I believe you,” I tell her. The words float between us, settling around Marley like a blanket.

“Thanks,” she says. “Even though I wasn’t the only one holding back. The police told me about the black hearts.”

My stomach sinks. “What did they say?”

“That someone has been sending you strange messages for years. And you think it’s the same person who is behind the murders.”

“Layla had a black heart tattoo. After she died, I started getting them sent to me from some kind of stalker. They’ve been tied to all the crimes that happened in recent weeks.”

“How could you think I was ever behind this?” she asks. “I would have been in grade school when Layla died.”

“I don’t know. I thought it was possible you were working with someone else,” I answer honestly.

“Sometimes I wondered if I wasn’t chasing two different criminals entirely.

One thing is for sure, the black hearts are connected to the group now.

There was one attached to the The Mistake manuscript that was sent to the police. ”

“If the police told me about your stalker, and that you were the one who went to them, they probably told the others, too.”

“They’ve talked to everyone?”

“I’m assuming. Now everyone in the group knows about your theory, including whoever is behind it.”

I cross my arms, thinking. Now that everything’s out in the open, the stakes are raised. The possibility of unmasking the killer is better than ever.

“I told the police your theory that the killer was active before I even joined the group. We need to be upfront about everything if we want to put a stop to this,” I say.

And if we want to get justice for the many lives lost. Marley’s brother, Brandon.

Rudy Raines. Jessica Wilder. And now, Darryl Nease.

With each name added to the list, the burden of guilt gets heavier.

“I was surprised you hadn’t already told them. ”

“We both know how ridiculous it sounds, that someone in the writing group is a cold-blooded murderer, but isn’t truth stranger than fiction?”

“In my experience.” I look outside. A blackbird lands on the iron railing, blending into the drab setting. It rustles its head a few times before spreading its wings and flying off. “We need to decide what we’re going to do. It doesn’t matter what the police think.”

“I don’t know what to do.” She leans back, her shoulders slumped. “The one thing I do know is that whoever is doing this hasn’t yet figured out I’m Brandon’s sister.”

“What makes you think that?”

“We have different surnames,” she says. “I started going by my mother’s maiden name after Brandon died. Being known as that dead guy’s sister carried too much stigma.”

“Still, whoever is behind this could have known.”

“I really don’t think they’ve given a second thought to Brandon since he died.

Or Rudy Raines for that matter. For the past couple of weeks, all the focus has been on you.

” She clenches her jaw, and I realize there’s an extra layer of motive for Marley: she believes this is the only way to bring her brother’s killer to justice. “It all ties back to Layla.”

“But why?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I think the only way to really answer that question is to go to the group and ask.”