Page 48

FORTY-ONE

ONE YEAR LATER

I close my eyes and try to breathe.

My stomach is a bundle of nerves, heat climbing the back of my neck.

Within the cramped confines of the bathroom stall, I try to escape into my mind.

You can do this , I tell myself. You’ve already done it .

But it doesn’t matter how much has changed in the past year, feelings of insecurity plague me.

Someone raps against the stall door.

“Becca, are you in there?” Crystal asks. “They need you up front. It’s about to start.”

“Coming,” I say, keeping my voice level. I count to ten, try to take control of my nerves. This is what you wanted more than anything , I tell myself.

When I open the stall door, she’s standing there, waiting for me.

“It’s going to be great,” she says. My friendship with Crystal has been tested more than most, and she’s still here. That’s a victory within itself. Once she found out what happened, she came rushing back into my life, and she’s been by my side ever since.

She pushes open the bathroom door and we enter the main area of the store. Shelves with books line either side of us, showing the names of authors I’ve always admired. As I walk through the corridors, I can’t help thinking about everything that’s brought me to this point.

My love of reading and writing, which started when I was in middle school, the way I was able to escape into fictional stories when the hardships of adolescence became too difficult.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it seemed, I was grown, a student at WU embarking on real friendships, Crystal and Layla at my side.

The open doors to the conference room provide a glimpse of the audience inside.

Rows upon rows of readers ready to fire off questions about the book.

About what happened. I spot my mother sitting in the front row.

A few seats down, I spy April and Victoria playfully gossiping as they wait for the event to begin.

The sight is overwhelming, and I take a step backward.

“Don’t be nervous.” Crystal grabs my shoulder, keeping my balance. “Everyone loves you.”

Everyone being the loyal readership we’ve gained in the past year, all thanks to the nonfiction release, How a Fake Murder Caught a Real Killer: A Tale of Grief and Obsession by Becca Walsh and Marley Theroux.

I focus on the banner at the front of the room which features the book cover I dreamed about for so long.

It’s shades of black and red and navy blue, the title written in white, bright and bold.

“Becca?”

I turn to see one of the bookstore attendants approaching, clipboard in hand. “The moderator is going to speak for about ten minutes before we get started. Marley’s waiting in another room. Would you like to join her?”

I flit my eyes to Crystal once more. She’s nodding and smiling. “Good luck,” she says, before entering the conference room.

I follow the attendant through the back of the bookstore, trying to keep my heart from beating too fast. She opens a nondescript door. Inside, Marley is sitting in a foldable chair, her feet propped onto a table.

“I wondered if you’d gotten lost,” she says. “You look like a nervous wreck.”

“It’s our first big event,” I say, lowering myself into the chair across from her.

“We better get used to this. We have four more readings before the holidays.”

How a Fake Murder Caught a Real Killer has been a runaway hit.

Marley and I started writing shortly after Danielle’s arrest, and an agent swooped up our proposal before we were even finished.

Marley is set to start a true crime podcast, after all, and Night Beat , my first novel, is scheduled to release next spring.

A year ago, I never would have imagined this level of success.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time,” the attendant says, leaving the clipboard on the table between us. “Here are the moderator’s notes if you want to look over them.”

Alone in the room, the reality of everything that’s happened in the past year begins to set in.

When I think of the night Layla died, it’s difficult to separate what I thought happened from the truth.

For years, I blamed Michael Massey. I blamed myself.

I imagined her death hundreds of times, never knowing the real culprit was someone else entirely.

There’s no way I could have saved her, I realize, not when Danielle was, unknowingly, watching her every move.

On the day of her arrest, I handed over the recorded confession to Chaz and Wooley as soon as we made it to the police station.

Turns out they’d been keeping tabs on me, would have likely arrived even if it wasn’t for my hurried call to 911.

The detectives claim they were only trying to keep me safe, but I still believe I was their number one suspect, until I captured Danielle’s confession on tape.

The recording in hand, they were able to switch their sights to her.

It didn’t take them long to find additional evidence tying her to the location of Jessica Wilder’s murder, and she never presented a convincing alibi for the night of Darryl Nease’s death.

Technical data even shows when she likely hacked into my email account to send those messages.

The list of evidence against her is long, and after years of tormenting me with the black hearts, I feel a sense of relief knowing she’s behind bars.

Of course, Danielle’s arrest means Michael Massey has a chance of being released.

The justice system moves at an even slower pace than publishing, so I’m not sure when that will be, but he has a hearing coming up soon.

I’m conflicted about his fate. Part of me pities the fact he spent a decade in prison for a murder he didn’t commit; however, when I consider the testimony of his living victims, or dare myself to recall the night I was nearly assaulted at the frat house, I’m convinced he is where he needs to be.

“Did you read over the moderator’s questions?” Marley asks.

My throat is dry when I try to speak. “Yeah. I did.”

“What’s going on with you?” she asks, sensing my uneasiness. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I stare at her. Marley has always reminded me of Layla, ever since that first meeting, but looking at her now, all I can see are their differences.

It was never the event in front of our readers that had my nerves all twisted.

It’s the conversation I’m about to have now with Marley, my collaborator and friend.

I pull the clipboard on the table closer to me, flipping through the same series of questions I studied last night in preparation for the day’s event.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the timeline. The murders of Jessica Wilder and Darryl Nease. Do you ever feel guilty that we’re profiting off their deaths?”

“We’re profiting off our own experiences,” she says, firmly. “Remember, we lost people, too. Layla and Brandon. Besides, a portion of the sales goes to charities. We should be proud of that.”

“I am.” I stop when I see the question that’s been keeping me up at night. The one that’s been impossible for me to answer after all this time. “Check out question twenty-three.”

I shove the clipboard closer to her, and she reads. Of course, she would have already seen it. We were both given a copy and asked to comment on anything we did or didn’t want mentioned.

Marley sits upright, pushing the clipboard back to me. “I scratched that one out. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s been bothering me though.”

The question reads: Any idea why Danielle chose not to leave a black heart at the scene of Darryl Nease’s death?

I sit back, looking straight at Marley, and ask, “Why did you scratch that one off?”

“We have a limited amount of time. We can’t get to every question, especially if we want time for readers to ask their own.” She pauses. “And there was a black heart at the bridge. It was left with the article about Layla’s death, remember?”

The fear of finding that article still feels fresh. It was the first time I made a solid connection between Layla’s death and the hearts and the copycat crimes. The first time I acknowledged all the horrors writing that story had brought to life.

“Danielle left that before I arrived at the bridge. Before I came looking for you and we talked at the diner. Long before Darryl Nease was pushed.”

“So?”

“His body was found with a copy of my story,” I remind her.

“Right. Just like a copy of The Mistake was sent to the police station.”

“There was a black heart with that,” I say. “No black heart was left at Darryl Nease’s crime scene.”

“The man was found in a river. No telling what evidence was lost.” She crosses her arms over her chest, kicking her feet back on the table. “What are you getting at, anyway?”

“When we met at the diner, I told you my suspicions about what had been happening. The copycat crimes. Jessica Wilder’s murder mimicking The Mistake .” I pause, watching her closely. “I never told you about the black hearts.”

“So?”

“Danielle had been sending me the hearts for years. She left them at every crime scene, even when she slashed my tires. Why wouldn’t she leave one there?”

Marley doesn’t answer. She’s no longer looking at me either. She’s staring ahead.

“Marley, where did you go after we left the diner?”

“Home.”

I have no way of knowing if that is true. The narrative of what happened to Darryl Nease has already been decided for us. His death was lumped in with the crimes Danielle committed, and no one, not even me, questioned it.

And yet that one loose end won’t leave me alone.

“You didn’t know about the black hearts until after he died,” I say. “That’s why one wasn’t at the scene.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“If Danielle killed Darryl Nease, she would have left a heart behind. It makes me think maybe we got it wrong. Someone else killed him.” I pause again, hoping she won’t make me say out loud what we both know I’m thinking. “I just can’t figure out why.”

She places her feet on the ground, moving her body closer to the table. When she looks at me, the sunny, bright expression behind her eyes is gone.

“At the diner, I urged you to go to the police. You refused. You thought there wasn’t enough evidence.

That they wouldn’t believe you. No one was ever going to listen to my theory that someone was killing people based on fictional stories.

I needed the police to investigate Brandon’s death.

I needed something to grab their attention. ”

My chest heaves up and down as I try to control my breathing. “Marley, did you go back to the bridge after our conversation that night?”

She lowers her eyes further, her voice low and hard to hear.

“I already had access to the shared drive, you know. Victoria added me in before you ever told me about it. It was easy to print a copy of your story, to present a solid connection between a man’s death and what you’d written.

But you’re right. I didn’t know about the black hearts. ”

That’s why one wasn’t found at the scene. Marley never knew to leave one. Danielle may have been responsible for everything else, but not for the murder of Darryl Nease.

Marley did that.

“He was an innocent man that had nothing to do with any of this.” Tears fill my eyes, fall down my cheeks.

“He had no family. No one to worry about him?—”

“You don’t know that!” I shout, my body beginning to shake with anger.

“I missed Brandon so terribly, and all I wanted was a reason for someone to take a closer look at his case. I needed you and the police to believe this was real!”

Thinking back, the murder at Banyon’s Bridge happened right before our meeting at the Pizzeria, when she was complaining about lack of sleep.

She missed the next Mystery Maidens meeting, but it wasn’t because she was paranoid about how dangerous the situation had gotten.

She was spiraling over the fact she murdered an innocent man.

“And look what happened as a result,” she says, spreading her arms wide. “We’ve brought closure to multiple other families. Danielle is behind bars. Both our lives have changed for the better.”

Two quick raps on the door, and it opens.

“It’s time,” the coordinator says, standing in the doorway. “Are you ready?”

Marley is motionless, staring at me. “Becca, are we good? I need to know you can do this.”

I stand slowly, walking through the open doorway and waiting for Marley to follow. When she does, she sees that Chaz is standing beside me, and freezes. Unbeknownst to her, he’d been waiting outside the door the entire time. Listening.

“Becca, please don’t do this,” she pleads, her voice quivering when she spots the glint off the handcuffs Chaz holds in his palms.

“All I’m doing is telling the truth,” I say, refusing to give Marley a second glance. “The audience is waiting.”

And I have one hell of a story to tell them.

* * *

If you were gripped to every page of The Writer , and every twist and turn of the story, you won’t want to miss Not My Mother , Miranda’s thrilling bestseller.

What if the person you trust most in the world is lying to you?

Marion will face this terrible dilemma when the police come to arrest her mother…

Get it here , or keep reading for an exclusive extract.