Page 22 of The Writer

As I turn to walk inside, something catches my eye. A black heart sticker is plastered onto the railing outside my building. I run my hands over the paper, making sure it’s real, not just some figment of my imagination. The metal railing is cold beneath my fingers, the sticker wrapped tightly around it.

The crowds are still staring ahead at the maelstrom of police cars and emergency responders, while I have my own crisis right in front of me. Another black heart. It must mean something. I know it wasn’t here this morning; I would have seen it when I came downstairs to pay the car repairman. This means someone must have left it after I went back in, right around the time that pedestrian was struck by a passing vehicle.

I look over my shoulder, searching for a familiar face, but find nothing. Countless faces, all of them ignoring me, and yet one of them must be here because of me. One of them must have left this message.

Three hearts in the past two weeks.

Two of them found at scenes that were ripped directly from the Mystery Maidens’ stories.

Something is happening, and it appears the target for everything is me.

THIRTEEN

Throughout my shift, my mind keeps returning to the similarities between the Mystery Maidens stories and the events of the past week. One of the biggest writing rules is that coincidences happen in life, not in fiction. However, the timing of these two incidents—my slashed tires and the hit-and-run on my street this morning, followed by the presence of more black hearts—makes me wonder if there isn’t something larger at play. The hearts have been out of my life for more than a year. Why start reappearing now? Nothing in my life has changed.

“Becca!” Nikki shouts, her screeching voice snapping me back to reality. “Your order is up.”

Several plates of food sit beneath heat lamps on the food line. The blazing ceramic stings my fingertips as I move them onto a large tray.

And why did both things happen to me?Mytires slashed. A hit-and-run onmystreet.

“Don’t forget your side dishes,” Nikki says, standing uncomfortably close. In the kitchen, it’s all jutting elbows and dancing around co-workers, but feeling the heat of Nikki’s breath on my neck makes me want to scream.

“Getting them,” I say, adding ramekins of Parmesan cheese and marinara sauce to the overloaded platter.

If someone is trying to mess with me, acting out the events from our stories, it would have to be one of the other Mystery Maidens, wouldn’t it? They’re the only ones with access to our stories, the only ones who could draw such a close connection between reality and fiction. But why would one of them want to target me? The black hearts have been appearing for the past decade. Could one of the group members have been sending them all this time?

“Becca,” Nikki says. “You just got seated again at?—”

“Chill, Nikki!” I shout, hefting the tray over my shoulder. “Let me get out of this godforsaken kitchen. Please.”

I’m irritated, not just by Nikki’s micromanaging, but by this bizarre riddle that’s stuck in my mind. Coincidences are rare in real life, too. It’s difficult for me to wrap my mind around the fact that two crimes just happened to take place within days of having read about them in stories.

I wipe the thoughts from my mind, and I’m all smiles by the time I arrive at my table. I pass out the heavy pasta bowls—“Be careful, it’s hot!” I warn—and check that my customers are satisfied. They should be my last party of the night. It’s near closing time, and what I want more than anything is to go home and rest.

As I’m turning to head back to the kitchen, I spot Nikki watching me from across the room. Just then, I remember her barking order that I’d been sat another table. My annoyance subsides when I see it’s only Chaz, sitting at one of the high tops by the bar.

“I was about to be annoyed someone came in right before closing,” I say, once I make my way over. “Then I saw it was you.”

“Not here to make your job harder,” he says. “Just want to kill time and get a meal.”

He orders his usual again. I drift to the back of the restaurant to ring it up in the computer. As I’m tapping into the screen, an idea enters my head.

Another complaint in crime fiction is that the protagonist doesn’t act like a reasonable person in their situation would. They don’t call for help. They don’t involve the police. They run back inside the house.

I look back at Chaz, a police officer. A person who could possibly help with the black hearts situation has been delivered straight to me. I’ve not had the best relationship with cops in the past, but Chaz knows me on a personal level, as much as anyone knows me, that is. Maybe I should tell him about what’s been happening.

My party table exits right around the time Chaz’s food order is ready. By now, the restaurant is near empty, only a few customers scattered around the room finishing their meals. I carry Chaz’s dinner over and sit across from him.

“Can you talk and eat at the same time?” I ask.

“Multitasking is my superpower,” he says, taking another swig of beer. “Something bothering you, or just bored?”

“Both.” I look around the lonely restaurant. Nikki is busy in the back, inspecting each table to make sure the condiments are stocked, and the floors are swept. The hostess at the front has just switched the sign from Open to Closed. “There is something that’s been bugging me. A mystery of sorts.”

“Are you needing help with one of your stories?”

“It’s not something I’m writing,” I say. “Someone is messing with me, and I wanted to get your thoughts.”

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