Page 17 of The Writer

Then, the mistake. The third girl had been a total disaster, and he’d narrowly escaped the angry partygoers who appeared upstairs, but sometimes a near-miss could provide the motivation needed to take on the next challenge.

Layla had been different. He’d noticed her right away, been drawn to her vibrant spirit like a moth to a flame. The moment he saw her, he knew he had to have her, but it was a difficult task. She wasn’t as drunk as the other girls, and even though he tried, he wasn’t able to slip her anything, not when the careful bartender was so close. So they’d left together, and he thought, maybe he could woo her on his own merits. She was clearly smitten with him; it couldn’t be that hard to get her to do what he wanted.

And yet, once he touched her, he couldn’t let go. He clung on tighter, much like someone who is drowning will unknowingly murder their rescuer. Before he knew it, she was dead. Her body absent of the vibrant spirit that first attracted him. He tried to wipe the memory away as he hurried back tohis apartment, trying not to imagine what the scene would be like when someone stumbled upon her in daylight.

And yet, as he lay in bed, Layla haunted him. Her final words. The forever look in her eyes.

Unable to sleep, he remained still, waiting for whatever was to come next.

TEN

When I finish reading the latest part of the story, everyone around the table quietly claps.

“Very twisted, Becca,” Victoria says, the bangles on her wrists clinging together as she applauds.

“Yeah,” Marley says, her voice not as strong. “It’s really dark.”

“Why’d you start writing from the killer’s POV again?” Danielle asks. “I figured you would have focused more on the crime.”

“I don’t know,” I say. I’d not really thought of that myself. Why had I written the majority of the story from the killer’s point of view? I wouldn’t have guessed that perspective would come so easily to me. It makes the sudden rush of creativity all the more disturbing. “I guess I was trying to continue the suspense. Readers already know about the murder, but they must be wondering why the guy did it, right?”

“I think it’s brilliant,” April says. “I love getting inside a psychopath’s head to see what makes them tick.”

I quickly look back at the table, as though their stares are too bright to hold my attention. Despite my friends’ praise, I’m not proud of this story. Everything about it—from the opening sceneto my latest addition—feels wrong, and yet it’s the only thing that holds my attention.

Marley’s comment sticks with me.The Mistakeis dark. Too dark. All the other stories we’ve shared this evening are light-hearted by comparison: a woman whose ex-boyfriend toys with her by sending letters to her friends; a man maimed in a hit-and-run; and a woman who finds out her father is a serial killer when she finds tokens from his kills in a garage.

Stepping inside the mind of a murderer and rapist is extreme, and even though I’m the one who wrote the story, I can’t quite shake the macabre elements. For multiple reasons.

“I guess that leaves April,” Danielle says, looking over at her. “You have anything new to share this week?”

“I do, actually,” she says, her voice even more cheerful than normal.

I’m grateful for all the women in the group, but April especially. Nothing cuts through the dark subject matter like her upbeat demeanor, even if the story to follow is filled with psychological horror. Maybe it’s because she’s surrounded by primary colors and cartoons all day, but her personality is infectious, making it easier for me to forget the Layla story.

Before she begins her reading, I plan to tell her about my slashed tires. I won’t mention the black heart I found, but I thought the group might appreciate the coincidence of her story from last week happening in real life, but April quickly turns her computer around, showing us all the screen.

“Originally, I did have a new story to share with all of you, but then I received this.” Her voice is a near squeal, her fluttering fingers tapping against the screen. “I got an offer of representation!”

Everyone around the table gasps, except for Marley, who looks at our reactions with confusion.

“What’s that?” she asks, her face so blank and dumb I want to slap the expression right off it.

“That means a literary agent wants to represent her work,” Victoria says, kindly. “It’s the first big step in getting published.”

Marley’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. She turns to April, all smiles. “That’s great news. Congratulations!”

“It really is,” Danielle says, clasping her hands together. “This is amazing. The first in our group to land an agent.”

“I keep pinching myself,” April says, her eyes darting from the computer to us. “When I first sent off my manuscript, I expected to spend months waiting on a response. I can’t believe this is all happening so fast.”

“Tell us everything,” Victoria says. “We want all the details.”

We listen as April goes into the story. It’s not a big deal by most people’s standards, but when you’re a writer, this is the moment you fantasize about for years. Dreaming about that one Yes lessens the sting of the never-ending Nos. Seems to erase all the self-doubt and fear that comes along with this profession.

April says she was in the middle of school pickup when she received the email. “I had to refresh the screen a couple times to make sure I was reading it correctly,” she tells us, her eyes bright with excitement. “We set up a phone call for the following day, talked about our plans and goals for the book, then she made the offer.”

“Did you accept right away?” I ask, trying to sound more interested than jealous.

---