Page 27 of The Writer

There’s no denying that Marley is a gifted writer, and although I won’t admit it to Danielle, that’s probably the main reason I dislike her. She’s the epitome of everything I want to be, everything I once was. That, and she’s the most likely culprit behind the copycat crimes. Is it possible my story unlocked something inside of her? Made her start lashing out at others?

When the waitress walks past our table, Danielle flags her down and orders another drink.

“Not in a hurry to get home?” I ask.

“To my lonely apartment? Nah, I’ll stay out for one more drink. Maybe I’ll go to sleep faster.”

“No boyfriend or girlfriend?” I continue, realizing immediately that’s the most personal question I’ve ever asked Danielle.

She laughs, raising her glass. “Not at the moment. With the schedule I have, I’m not sure it will ever happen.”

“You’re quite the catch,” I tell her. “Beautiful. Smart. And a gifted writer.”

I think about the first time I met Danielle. If it weren’t for her, I never would have joined Mystery Maidens, and funnily enough, what put us in contact was the black hearts.

I reached out to Danielle’s firm after I’d been fired from the MedSpa, hoping I could sue them for lost wages. My anger was intense because I knew I’d done nothing wrong and the black hearts were to blame, but because the sender remained a mystery, it seemed more logical for me to direct my fury at my former employer.

The moment I stepped into Danielle’s waiting room, I was intimidated. Shiny new floors and clean, posh furniture. Being around lawyers made me as nervous as being around cops, butI felt I had to do something to get my job back, and I hoped threatening a lawsuit might do the trick.

I became even more unsettled when I stepped into her office and saw her. I’d been expecting an older woman, someone around my mom’s age with a Marcia Clark-like confidence. Instead, I saw someone my own age. Beautiful, smart, accomplished. She greeted me with complete professionalism and kindness, yet as I retold my version of what happened at the MedSpa, I felt my voice weakening, like the very ground beneath me was shifting. I never did get the courage to tell her about the black hearts; I’d hoped there’d be a way to get my job back without bringing them up.

“Is there anything we can do?” I asked, hoping for once I’d get a win, a break from the constant cycle of disappointment.

Danielle leaned forward, her delicate wrists accented with simple, expensive jewelry. “The fact there aren’t cameras helps us,” she said. “They can’t prove you stole the cash, just like you can’t prove you didn’t. However, the fact you were there less than sixty days works against us.”

“How?”

“If they were citing theft as the reason they fired you, we could challenge them on that front. Typically, if someone is let go in the first sixty days, an employer doesn’t have to have a reason. They could simply say you weren’t the right fit.”

“But that’s not true.” I felt my cheeks reddening, my desperation scratching at my throat. “They fired me because they think I stole tips, and I didn’t.”

“I believe you,” she said, calmly. “But if I were in your shoes, I’d walk away. It would be easier and save you time and money in the long run.”

“That was the first job I’ve had in years I actually enjoyed,” I said under my breath, feeling a familiar hopelessness.

“Have you started working anywhere else?”

I exhaled, leaning against the velvet backrest. “I’m waiting tables at a place downtown. Mario’s Pizzeria.”

“That’s a good restaurant,” she said, for the first time failing to sound genuine. “I’ve always heard servers make more than hourly workers anyway.”

“It’s good for the time being.” I cleared my throat, desperate to sound less like a loser. “My real passion is writing. I’m working on my first book, actually.”

A broad smile spread across her face, and she leaned back, resting a silver pen against her lips. “Really? What kind of writing?”

“Mysteries and thrillers, mostly,” I said. “They’ve always been my favorite to read.”

“Very interesting, indeed.” She leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “This isn’t why you came to see me today, but I might be able to help you after all. Let me tell you about the Mystery Maidens.”

The rest was history. That chance meeting introduced me to the group, which led me to where I am now. Although we’ve all been meeting for more than a year, we only know superficial amounts about each other’s lives. I wonder what quiet moments of desperation exist in all our lives, if the desperation became too much to handle for someone, pushed one of us over the edge.

“I think I like the way my life is,” Danielle says, bringing my thoughts away from our first introduction and back to the present. “I don’t answer to anyone else. If I want to work late or write or stay for an extra drink, I can. Not everyone is in that position.”

“How about family?” I ask.

“I completed my undergrad back home before I moved here for school. Like you,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “I always thought I’d move back after I graduated law school, but onething led to another. I suppose this is my home now, for better or worse.”

I don’t plan on telling her I never finished my degree. It’s a fact I’ve managed to keep quiet for over a year; I assume most of them believe I graduated and am only working as a waitress to support my starving artist lifestyle.

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