Page 24 of The Writer

In reality, I can’t picture any of them coming after me, but there’s no one else with access to our stories. Maybe Marley. She’s the newest member, and I’ve felt defensive around her since the first time I saw her.

“The black hearts have been part of my life for so long, and now they’re connected to the stories from group,” I say. “That must be significant.”

“These black hearts. How long have you been getting them?”

“Ten years.”

Admitting the timeline out loud seems to disprove Marley as the stalking suspect. She would have been a child when I received the first black heart. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about her, and I didn’t start making connections until after she joined the group.

“And they couldn’t be from an ex-boyfriend or something? Some friend you wronged?”

My cheeks flush with shame, and I stare into my lap. It’s true that I have no clue who is sending the black hearts, but there’s an obvious reason why they’re being sent, and I can’t tell Chaz that.I can’t tell anyone. I have to keep it locked away with my treasure trove of secrets.

His radio blurts, and Chaz looks away. “I gotta take this. I don’t feel like I helped a lot.”

“It’s okay. You’re just being honest.” That familiar feeling of defeat returns. Just like last time, there wasn’t enough information for me to be believed.

“Becca!”

Across the restaurant, Nikki is waving to get my attention, a clipboard in her hand, no doubt ready to dish out the evening’s side work.

“Looks like duty calls for me, too,” I say.

“You should still come by the station and report that someone vandalized your car. If we are able to find out who did it, at least we’ll have a paper trail.”

“Sure.”

Begrudgingly, I walk in the direction of Nikki, ready to complete my laundry list of tasks before ending tonight’s shift. Chaz has given me a lot to think about, but one thing is clear:

I’m in this by myself.

FOURTEEN

I’m running. My chest feels like it’s about to burst, each intake of freezing air piercing my insides, but I must keep moving forward. To give up now would be to die.

Something is following me. In my periphery, dark shadows creep, and I’m too focused to face them, but I can feel the approaching danger. An urgent voice tells me to keep going.

Next thing I know, I’m flat on the ground. Did I fall? Was I pushed? My palms feel wet soil, thick and clumpy, making it difficult for me to find my bearings.

Someone is standing over me. One of the shadows, a phantom, ready to pounce?—

I wake up with a start, gasping for breath, much like I did after my night terror. Slowly, I familiarize myself with my surroundings. My cotton bed sheets, my lumpy pillows, the hard rectangle of my cell phone beside my head. It’s nearing six o’clock in the morning, much earlier than I usually get up, but I’m home. I’m safe.

Still, my chest feels like there’s a drum inside it, the adrenaline only starting to fade. This is my second night terror in recent weeks; before this, it was almost a decade. Reluctantly, I think back to the conversations with my mother. She’s worriedabout me this time of year, and I hate to admit she might be right. Perhaps the past has a firmer grip than I’d like to admit, and trying to fight it just makes the grasp that much stronger, a python coiling tight around what’s trying to break free.

Or maybe this is all in my head, and my dreams are my subconscious’ way of telling me to slow down.

I roll over, staring at the bare wall across from me. It mirrors the blank canvas in my mind. Ten years ago, my mistakes caused something terrible to happen. I dropped out of college, sending my future down a different path, and after all this time, I’m still not sure where I’m headed. As much as I want to admit I’m fine, it isn’t true, and maybe those insecurities have manifested in paranoia, about the present and about those around me.

My conversation with Chaz last night is still fresh.We need proof, not speculation. Did I really think one of my writing group members was out to get me? That one of them had been behind the black hearts all along? All because of two incidents that were similar to the stories from our group? I must have sounded like a complete maniac, and now, in the quiet and dark of early morning, I’m starting to wonder if I am.

Just as in my most recent night terror, maybe the person I’m running from is myself, my own worst enemy for the past decade and more.

Fully awake, I pick up my phone and begin scrolling. No new emails, which meansNight Beatis still a lost cause, but at least I didn’t receive another rejection. My mind isn’t awake enough to even consider writing, so I scroll through social media, waiting out that awkward intermission between getting up and starting the day or rolling back over and returning to sleep.

A couple of posts down is when I see it, an article from a local newspaper that’s been shared several dozen times, despite the early morning hour:

Breaking Overnight: WU Student Killed

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