Page 25 of The Writer

Whitaker PD confirms a female body was discovered last night in a drainage ditch close to campus. Emergency services were dispatched, and the victim was pronounced dead at the scene. A name has not been released, but officers did confirm the female victim was a WU student. A cause of death has not been released, but foul play is suspected. They are waiting to notify the next of kin before releasing further details.

I read and re-read the short article. A female student murdered. Her body left in a drainage ditch. Just like in my story.

Desperate for more information, I type targeted phrases into the search bar. Sure, the police might be waiting for confirmation, but no one else is ever that patient. There must be information out there about a woman murdered, a student missing, at least.

It doesn’t take long for me to find it. Post after post with sparse information, mainly pictures and short captions.

RIP Jessica

Prayers for your friends and family

My best friend, never forgotten

It’s the same person in each photo. A plain-faced brunette with bangs that rest just above dark eyes. She’s smiling, carefree. A woman in her early twenties who could never have predicted her life would end so soon. The media and police haven’t announced it yet, but this must be the WU student that was murdered.

Below the last photo, a recent comment grabs my attention. A black heart.

It’s not just one, but several, each left in a separate post by the same user. They rain down the comments section, leaving a trail for me to follow.

I immediately click on the user’s profile, but the account is private. Empty, really, with no friends or recent posts. A random mourner leaving a flurry of black hearts on a post about a murdered woman. What are the odds? Other people have left hearts and similar emojis to express their condolences, but I can’t shake the feeling that these symbols were meant for me.

Another story from the group re-enacted in real life. Another black heart left for me to find.

I fall back on my bed, staring wide-eyed at the dark ceiling. The doubts from earlier go away, and a new reality takes shape in my mind. This is more than another coincidence, and now it seems whoever is copying our stories—this timemystory—is escalating. From vandalism to assault to murder.

FIFTEEN

The glass door to McCallie’s Pub is etched in frost; it looks like dozens of snowflakes are glued to the surface. There hasn’t been any snow but judging from the gray skies above and the cooling temperatures, winter will be making an early appearance.

Still, I’d rather stand out here, shaking, than enter.

I almost skipped out on tonight’s meeting entirely. Since reading the news alert about the murdered WU student, I’ve done little more than hide in bed, thinking. More details have been released, including an official identification. Jessica Wilder is her name, only twenty years old. She’d last been seen leaving a bar close to campus, and it’s believed she was killed while walking back to her dorm, her body left in a ditch—just like inThe Mistake.

The similarities between the story I wrote and her death frighten me, and given the other strange incidents of the past week, I’m convinced there’s no coincidence. In the past, I’ve only received the black hearts at random intervals, never connected to any other element of my life. Now, there have been three hearts appear after incidents that mirror the groups’ stories. Someone is acting out the crimes we wrote about, trying harder than ever to get to me, and it’s working. My emotions are allover the place, my nerves rattled. And the guilt. It weighs heavy on my chest, at times, making it difficult to breathe. Because this time, the black hearts stalker isn’t only targeting me, but harming other people, too.

“Becca?” Marley is standing behind me, uncomfortably close. Layers of scarves are wrapped around her neck, and she’s wearing a wool coat the color of amethyst. “I thought that was you. What are you doing standing in the cold?”

Seeing her sends another chill rattling through me. I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the glass door, still trying to work up the nerve to enter. “I had a phone call,” I lie. “I was just about to go in.”

“Good,” she says, walking ahead. Her heavy perfume—floral and citrus, at odds with this somber winter evening—marks a trail between where I stand and McCallie’s entrance. “I thought I’d be late. Now, we can arrive together.”

A voice inside warns:You shouldn’t go in there at all. It’s more than random coincidences now. Someone is committing crimes, and the black hearts at the scenes leave a trail of breadcrumbs back to me. I should be going to the police. Then I remember the way Chaz looked at me when I first shared my suspicions. He didn’t believe me, so why would anyone else? I’ll have to prove I’m right before sharing my theory with anyone, and hopefully before the trail of black hearts results in the secrets from the past resurfacing.

I allow Marley to lead the way, the journey to the back of the pub feeling slower than usual. Most nights, I’m eager to meet with the girls, to share my writing from the week. Tonight, I haven’t prepared anything, and I don’t plan on pretending otherwise. In fact, the only reason I’m here is to gauge the others’ reactions. If one of them is the black hearts stalker, and worse, if one of them killed Jessica Wilder, I must figure out which one it is.

As we walk through the crowded pub, I study Marley, her long curly hair cascading down her back, small braids intermixed with the waves. The way she glides through, leading with confidence and an air of mystery. The most obvious suspect for re-enacting our stories would be her. None of the crimes took place until after she joined the Mystery Maidens, and there’s something about her that’s irritated me since our first meeting. An intuition that warns me there’s more beneath the surface. It would be easier if she were the culprit, much more convenient than admitting one of my friends could be a potential murderer.

Still I can’t decide how Marley could be connected to the black hearts. She wouldn’t have started sending them as a child, unless there’s some other connection I don’t know about. Perhaps she uncovered the truth about my past and my drama with the hearts. It’s not like I haven’t tried telling people about my stalker before. Could she have found out about them from someone else and decided to include them in her twisted re-enactments? Or maybe she’s working with someone older, someone who would understand the significance of the hearts and what they mean.

For that reason, I’m committed to looking at each of the others closely, too. I must find answers before going to the police again, and before anyone else gets hurt, before my murderous stalker turns their violence toward me.

“There you are!” Victoria says once we reach the back booth. She and Danielle are sitting beside each other, their laptops already out, two glasses of wine nearby. “We thought everyone was going to ditch us.”

“It took me forever to find an Uber,” Marley says. “Becca, what’s your excuse?”

“I haven’t felt the best today,” I answer honestly. “Afraid I’m coming down with a cold.”

I study their reactions. If one of the women here committed a murder, would they suspect someone catching onto them this fast? Would they think there is another reason for my sudden illness? If they’re leaving a black heart at every scene, they must want me to know.

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