Page 21 of The Writer

“It’s hard to explain,” I tell her, careful not to divulge too much information. My mother already thinks I’m a failure; I don’t need her thinking I’m crazy, too.

“You know what?” She pauses, and I catch myself holding my breath. Maybe I’m right, and weird messages have been arriving at my childhood home, too. My mother exhales. “I think you’retrying to change the subject, just like you always do when I corner you about your future.”

“Mom—”

“No, Becca. You listen to me. No one is sending you strange notes. No one is sabotaging your future, except for you!”

The sound of screeching tires grabs my attention. A car horn blares, then another. The world outside my window sounds as frustrated as I feel during this conversation.

“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you, Mom,” I say.

“Not a disappointment, darling,” she says, and her voice sounds weaker, like she’s giving up. “Just wasted potential.”

I quickly come up with an excuse to get off the phone and hop in the shower. As the water splashes against my skin, I try to wash away my mother’s words, the sense of the failure that reeks off me like a bad smell.

Hopping into a clean pair of sweats, I pull my hair into a high bun and slip on some ChapStick. I have an afternoon shift at the restaurant, but a few errands that need to be run before then, now that my car is working again.

I rush downstairs, hurrying to not be late for another shift, when I’m astounded by the crowds standing on the street.

There are several police cars blocking the road, and my car too. Looks like I won’t be going anywhere soon. Groups of people have gathered. I notice the man who dropped off my car is still there, speaking to one of the officers. His gruff demeanor is gone, replaced with skin white as a sheet.

“Becca!”

A few steps away, I see Crystal. She waves me over.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at work.”

“I walked across the street for some coffee before my first client meeting,” she says. “Now this happened, and I’m stuck.”

“What happened?” I ask, looking at the crowds.

“Someone was hit by a car.”

“Hit?”

“Yes. This woman was crossing the street and a car just plowed into her. There were a lot of people standing around who saw the whole thing.”

“My goodness, is she okay?”

“I think she’s going to be,” she says. She points ahead, and I see a woman sitting in the back of an ambulance. She’s sitting upright, holding an ice pack to her head while an EMT looks at her legs. The woman is bruised up, but at least she’s alive.

“I can’t believe you didn’t hear the commotion,” Crystal says.

Thinking back, I remember the sounds of screeching tires and honking horns. I was so frustrated with the conversation with Mom I didn’t think to look out the window. Everything else must have happened when I was in the shower.

“What about the driver?” I ask.

“That’s the worst part,” Crystal says. “They just took off. I’m guessing that’s why there are so many police. They’re probably trying to gather as many statements as possible. Hopefully they’ll catch the bastard.”

“A hit-and-run,” I say, half to myself. Just like in Victoria’s story from the last Mystery Maidens meeting.

“The holidays bring out the crazy in people,” Crystal says. “You might be onto something, staying home all the time.”

“It’s definitely safer.” As the words leave my lips, a flash of the black hearts enters my mind, and I wonder if that’s true.

“At this rate, I think I’ll be better walking a few blocks and getting an Uber,” she says, walking away from the crowd. “Don’t wait up for me.”

I wave goodbye, thinking of how quickly Crystal abandoned her plan for safety. She might talk about the holidays bringing the crazy out in people, but she doesn’t really believe it. She’s never lived her life in fear, even when most people in herposition would have. She’s not like me, constantly looking over her shoulder for the next threat.

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