Page 28 of The Writer

Like Danielle, I never planned on staying here either. Sometimes I wonder why I did.

“My mom and I have always been at odds,” I say. “I guess I figure the more distance between us the better.”

“Sometimes distance is a good thing,” she says. “Although, I’ve been away from my hometown for so long most of my friends have moved on with their lives. Moved on from me. It took me a while to realize I don’t really fit into other people’s circles, which is why I focused on creating my own.”

“I know the feeling,” I say, although I’ve yet to find a place where I really belong, outside of the fictional worlds I create. For a moment, I’m taken aback by the similarities in our situations. Both Whitaker transplants, both here for several years without finding our footing, and both trying to turn our hobby into something substantial, although at least she has a career to fall back on.

Could Danielle be the person behind these murders? As she’s just admitted, she has time for little else outside writing and work. Even if she managed to fit messing with me and murdering a co-ed into her schedule, what would her motive be?

“Are you dating anyone?” she asks me.

I laugh, harshly. “No. Come to think of it, I’ve only had one relationship, and he cheated on me. Kinda sad when you think about it.”

“Men are dogs,” she says, taking another sip of her drink.

“Well, he didn’t do it alone,” I say. “What’s that make the woman involved?”

“A bitch.”

We nearly choke on our own laughter. I knock over my almost empty glass, quickly grabbing a napkin to wipe up the mess.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? We spend all this time together and know so little about each other.”

“I always thought that was one of the positives of the group,” she says. “We’re able to look at each other’s work more objectively the less we know.”

On the flip side, I think, it makes it harder to gauge which, if any, of the group members might be a killer.

“It’s nice making new friends, though,” she says. “Lessens the sting of knowing everyone else moved on without me.”

“It is nice,” I say.

“The only one who really tells us anything about their life outside of writing is April,” she says. “Moms are natural over-sharers.”

I laugh at the truth of the comment. “Strange she missed tonight,” I say, watching Danielle for a reaction.

“Struggles of being a mom,” she says, finishing off the rest of her wine. “I guess.”

After my conversation with Danielle, reminiscing on the way we first met, how she introduced me to the others, I can’t see her risking her privileged, albeit lonely life, to mess with me, which means I’ll have to turn my focus to the other group members.

April didn’t show up for tonight’s meeting—the first meeting after Jessica Wilder was killed—and I want to find out why.

SIXTEEN

April’s house is located in one of the many subdivisions outside downtown. I’ve been there only once, when she insisted she would host last year’s Christmas meeting. She ushered us into her grand kitchen, all slow-release cabinets and stone countertops, where she’d set up a candy cane martini bar alongside various appetizers.

Thinking back to that time, I remember feeling out of place. My social gatherings are limited to the Mystery Maiden meetings. On the rare occasions I do visit someone’s place, it’s usually an apartment or a condo. The rest of us are centrally located to downtown, really—Danielle has an apartment within walking distance to her law office, and Victoria’s condo is close to WU. My two-bedroom looks like something a broke college kid would beg to rent.

April’s house is a real, mature home. Instead of a white picket fence, a large black privacy fence surrounds the perimeter of her backyard, blooming rosebushes decorating the front. I remember walking around her living room and dining room, candy cane martini in hand, admiring all the little details. The crisp white molding along the ceiling. The heavy frames which held abstract artwork. The colorful vases she’d purchased onher honeymoon in Venice. It wasn’t just the material things that stood out to me. In the corner of each room were large wicker baskets filled with children’s toys. Family portraits were scattered around the house, a loving presentation, by no means boastful.

I left that Christmas party believing April lived a charmed life. Happily married. Two beautiful children. And she still managed to carve out time for her writing. She’s exactly the type of woman my own mother would love to have as a daughter.

Those were all superficial observations. Tonight, I’m visiting her house to try and gauge whether she could be the person who is taunting me. It’s strange that she skipped tonight. In the year I’ve been part of the group, she’s not missed a single meeting. Even when her kids are sick, which seems to always be the case in the fall and winter, she arranges for her husband to watch them. Writing is a priority for her. Maybe the only reason she missed tonight’s meeting is because she has a guilty conscience.

I walk up the immaculate brick pathway snaking through her front lawn. The porch is alight with lanterns and adorned with fall décor. The doorbell rings loudly, and it’s only seconds before I get a response.

“Hello?”

The voice is clearly April’s, but I don’t see her. I look behind me trying to make sure.

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