Page 45

THIRTY-EIGHT

The world feels like it’s tilting, time a foreign construct, as I race to Marley’s location.

I slam on my horn, urging cars to move out of the way.

Heat pumps into the vehicle, droplets of sweat dripping down my neck, but even messing with the temperature dial feels like a waste of precious seconds.

My vision zeroes in, focusing on the road ahead.

Four minutes until my destination.

I re-enter downtown and its crosswalk-littered streets.

As much as I need to go fast, I’m afraid I’ll hit someone if I don’t slow down.

I pump on the brake, my body aching. A group of college students walk aimlessly across the street.

I blare my horn again, and they jump back just in time for me to zoom past.

Three minutes until my destination.

I’m not even sure where I’m headed. Somewhere in the vicinity of Victoria’s apartment.

That’s where Marley was when I heard that awful scream, the echoes of which reverberate in my mind.

How long does it take to murder a person?

Strangle the life from their body? Crush their skull? What if I’m too late?

Two minutes until my destination.

My surroundings are becoming increasingly familiar.

I’ve just passed McCallie’s Pub, the starting location of today’s stupid mission.

To the left, a police car sits against the curb.

Instinctually, I hit my brakes. The car must be empty because it doesn’t pursue, but that gives me an idea.

I fiddle with my phone, my shaking hands almost dropping it, and dial 911.

One minute until my destination.

The phone rings twice before it connects.

“Whitaker 911,” the operator says.

“A woman is being attacked,” I say, searching the streets for a place to park. “Send help.”

“What is your location?”

I step out of the car, my stomach dropping when I realize where I am. I’d been so determined to get here, seeing the address didn’t strike a chord. It’s changed since the last time I was here. My old apartment building torn down, an unfinished structure in its place.

“The construction site on Magnolia Avenue,” I say.

My eyes scan the brickwork, looking for the correct address, while my mind recalls old memories.

Layla and Crystal and I on moving day, unloading our cheap belongings.

Waltzing down the sidewalk to the restaurants and bars nearby.

This is where we lived together, the last place Layla ever lived.

“Who is being attacked?” the operator asks. “Calm down and give me some details.”

I’m out of breath, struggling to handle a conversation and open the front door to the building. The door is unlocked, but it’s so heavy, it takes all my strength to pull it open.

“The victim’s name is Marley Theroux,” I answer, once inside. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“What is your name?”

I’m inside. The entranceway is empty and made of stone, reminding me of being inside a cave. To my left, I see a series of boxes inscribed with names and numbers. This is a storage facility, with countless units on the inside. Even if Marley and Victoria are here, it could take hours to find them.

“Ma’am, what is your name?” the operator repeats, her voice increasingly agitated.

“It’s a storage facility,” I say. “Send help.”

“You need to stay on the line?—”

I end the call before she can finish her instructions. There’s no more information I can provide at this point, and I must use every minute between now and when the police get here to find Marley.

I pull up my location app, the blue circle showing Marley is in this exact location. She’s here, but where? Luring her here was intentional. Another way to send me a message.

“Marley?” I call out, my voice echoing. It’s a long strand of locked metallic units. It’s like I’m underground, hunting through catacombs, and I’m not sure which one might be Marley’s tomb. “Victoria?”

Marley was right, and Victoria is the one who was behind this.

I suppose it makes sense, seeing as Victoria was always the biggest literary critic of the group.

She’s spent so many years reading and writing crime stories, life began imitating art.

But still, why? Has she completely lost her mind?

Did working alongside Layla’s parents send her over the edge?

My footsteps thud against the concrete floors as I run the length of the storage containers.

Each one is closed and locked; Marley could be right on the other side of a metal awning, and I’d never know.

At the end of the hallway, another row continues on.

I turn the corner, and that’s when I see her.

Marley is sprawled out on the concrete, blood trailing from behind her ear.

“Marley!” I bend to her, placing my hand on her neck. There’s a faint pulse?—

“Don’t move.”

The voice is behind me, the echoing sounds of the order freezing me in place. I pull back my hands, Marley’s blood staining my fingers. I raise them slowly, showing I’m unarmed.

“Victoria?” I call out.

“Nope,” the voice says, smug and indignant.

Slowly, I stand and turn around.

Danielle is standing in front of me, holding a hammer at her side. The bright fluorescent lights illuminate her and the weapon completely. There are dark red stains on the metal.

“You’re behind this?” I say.

“You’d figured out it was one of us,” she says. “Why so surprised it’s me?”

I could never figure out why any of them did this. For the past ten minutes, I was convinced it was Victoria. That’s who Marley had been following when I heard that terrifying scream.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” Danielle says, gesturing the hammer toward Marley. “She isn’t either.”

“It’s been you this entire time?” I ask, my voice pleading.

“I thought you would have figured it out by now,” she says. “I’ve left you enough clues.”

“The black hearts.” All the images flash through my mind, but still nothing makes sense. “Why are you doing any of this?”

“It’s about Layla!” Danielle roars, raising the hammer in a murderous rage. “By now, you should know this isn’t about some stupid writing group. It’s about her . Everything has always been about her.”

“You knew Layla?” I stare at Danielle’s face, trying to understand. Danielle and Layla exist in two different lives, the one I lived before my roommate’s death, and the one after. How could the two of them have ever intersected?

“She was my best friend,” she says. “And she died because of you. All these years later, you still can’t give her the attention she deserves.”

“I don’t understand.” At first, I’m not sure if the words are spoken or merely thought. Confusion and fear mingle, making a mess of my mind. All I can piece together is that Marley is wounded, Danielle is holding a hammer and this all somehow relates back to Layla.

“I didn’t know you were friends,” I say. “I don’t remember you?—”

“You wouldn’t! I wasn’t friends with you ,” she says. “Layla was my best friend all through high school. We went to different colleges and grew apart. You think she was only your friend, but she was mine first. And you just left her.”

“What happened to Layla was a tragedy,” I say. “If I knew what was going to happen, I never would have left.”

“Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. People like you are just as bad as the monsters out there. You pretend to be someone’s friend, and then abandon them when they need you most. Imagine what that night was like for Layla.”

“I do all the time.”

I think of the fear, the sense of abandonment she must have felt. Only recently, I expressed all those emotions in the story I wrote. The Mistake. If there’s anything I could take back, it would be my actions the night she died.

“What you’re doing now makes no sense,” I say. “Killing those people had nothing to do with Layla.”

“It was that awful story. The moment I read it, I knew. You didn’t even care enough to change her name.

For a while, I thought I’d gotten control over my anger, but when I read that, it all came rushing back.

I needed to punish you for what you did, and what better way than to use your own words against you? ”

On the ground, Marley starts to tremble. She’s alive, but when she wakes and sees the situation, her terror will renew. I worry for her safety, and mine, too. No one can predict what Danielle might do next.

“This didn’t start with my story,” I say, desperate for more answers. “What about the other two men? Brandon, the man bludgeoned to death in an alley. And Rudy, who was strangled and left at a playground. Just like in the stories from group.”

“Oh. Those.” The nonchalant way she responds sends shivers down my spine. “In the years after Layla died, I struggled. I kept replaying that night repeatedly. Seeing her sitting at that bar, talking to him . If she hadn’t been so focused on some guy, she’d still be alive today.

“I was able to keep my anger under control while I was in school. When you have a heavy class load, you don’t have time to feel anything, even grief. I think that’s why I was able to control it for so many years. No choice.

“Once I got a job, it’s like I finally settled into what my adult life was.

What my life without Layla was. For the first time since she died, I’d go out into the world, and I really felt her loss.

She’d never be with me again, and every time I saw a group of girls together or guys alone at the bar, I felt her absence.

“Writing helped. I wrote stories to try to process what I was feeling, just like you said you did with The Mistake , but this anger inside kept growing, getting out of control. It wasn’t long after I’d written that first story, I went out to a bar, and saw Brandon.”

“Marley’s brother,” I say, my heart hurting for her, even though she can’t hear.

“Never knew that tidbit,” Danielle says, taking a look at Marley on the ground.

“He looks like Michael Massey, did you ever notice? When I saw him at the bar, I watched him half the night, thinking of how much he resembled the man who’d been with Layla.

The story I’d written was fresh in my mind, and I kept thinking, this guy would make the perfect victim.

“I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what was fake, between the past and the present.

I followed the guy out of the bar, retracing the similar path the victim would have taken in my story.

He cut down an alley to take a piss. Disgusting little creep.

Before I knew it, I had a two by four in my hands and I was bashing him over the head with it. ”

“You murdered an innocent man,” I say.

“But I wasn’t attacking Brandon, don’t you see? In my mind I was attacking him . The man who took Layla from me.”

“What about the second murder?”

“After that, it’s like I had this urge inside, but at the same time, there was this other voice in my head.

The real me, telling me that if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up in jail, no better than Michael Massey.

For a while, that was enough. Then, April shared that story about the cheating husband during Mystery Maidens.

I get so disgusted thinking of all the pathetic men out there who walk over us women, like it’s their birthright. The story stuck with me for a while.

“Not long after, I went to a bar and struck a conversation with some guy. Rudy. I could see the tan line of the wedding ring on his hand, knew he was a scumbag, just like the character in her story.

“When we left together, he thought he was going to get laid. We ended up at the park not far from where he lived. He started unbuckling his pants. I used his own belt to strangle him to death.”

I struggle to shake away the images in my mind. It’s important to keep Danielle talking. I have to understand why she did all of this. Any of it. “And then you just stopped?”

“You came to me. I couldn’t believe it. I’d been keeping tabs on you for years, of course. Sending you the black hearts whenever I thought you needed a reminder of what you’d done. Out of all the lawyers in Whitaker, you show up at my doorstep asking for help.”

“A black heart is what lost me that job in the first place,” I remind her.

“I know. I remember putting it in the tip jar,” she says. “Just like I broke up your relationship before that. You should be thanking me for that one. Jasper was a lousy lay.”

I clench my jaw, trying not to react. For years, the black hearts have been shrouded in mystery. Now I imagine Danielle’s face at each scene, in every scenario.

“So, you decided to be my friend instead?” I ask.

“I’d spent years trying to ruin your life.

Not just with the hearts. Before that, I’d followed all the details of Layla’s case, remained in contact with her family.

I was one of the people who urged her parents to file that suit against you and Crystal.

Sure, it didn’t go anywhere, but maybe it will make people think twice before leaving their drunk friend alone in a bar with a man she barely knows.

“But ruining your life hadn’t done much for me, had it? I was still so angry inside. I was still hurting people. When you sat in my office that day, I thought it was time I take a different approach. I decided to forgive you.”

“Forgive me?”

“Nine years had passed at that point. I knew I had changed, for better and worse. I thought maybe you had, too. And it’s not like the black hearts hadn’t done enough damage over the years.

Your life was rather pathetic. I chose to tell you about the writing group, tried to get to know you on a different level.

I never even let you know how much you had taken away from me.

As it got closer to the anniversary of her death, I sent another black heart to your apartment, just to keep you on your toes.

Still, I truly believed I’d moved on from what happened.

“And then you wrote that story.”

My heart thuds against my chest. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I never meant for anyone else to read it.”

“Then why did you share it? I’m telling you, reading that story made me feel like I was right back in that moment. There at that bar.”

The way she says this comes out strange, reminds me of what she said earlier, about seeing the man with Layla.

“You weren’t there that night,” I say. “How could you be right back in that moment? How could you see her sitting at the bar with him?”

Her face stills, the same way it did earlier when she was caught in a lie.

“Oh,” Danielle says. “I guess you don’t have the full story about that either.”