Page 34 of The Writer

EIGHTEEN

I picked up another afternoon shift at the pizzeria. As always, having the extra cash won’t hurt, but there’s another reason I wanted to work today.

Due to the proximity to campus, Victoria is known to stop by on Fridays for lunch. She’s the only original member of the Mystery Maidens I haven’t yet investigated.

Investigatedprobably isn’t the right term, but that feels like what I’m doing. Talking to each of them in an isolated setting, trying to determine whether they could be the person that killed Jessica Wilder. Both Danielle and April have stressors outside of the group—the former’s admitted loneliness and the latter’s impending divorce—but I’m not convinced it’s enough to make either of them go on a crime spree, especially one that’s so clearly targeted at me.

My aim with talking to Victoria today is twofold: get an idea of whether she could be behind the crimes, which is doubtful, and find out more about Marley. After all, Victoria knows the most about her because Marley is a student. Victoria is the one who introduced her to our group, and because the crimes took place after her arrival, it’s most likely she’s the one who has been copying our stories. She could be working alongside the blackhearts stalker or have found out about them some other way and started using them herself. In all the years I’ve played victim to this stalker, this feels like the closest I’ve ever come to finding out the truth, and that realization pushes me forward.

As expected, Victoria enters the restaurant right after the lunch rush dies down, which is around the time her afternoon class wraps up. When she sees me standing behind the hostess stand, she smiles, and I act equally surprised, as though I hadn’t been hoping this exact meeting would occur.

“I didn’t think you’d be working,” she says, standing in front of me.

“I can always use the extra cash with the holidays coming up,” I say, nodding to a booth at the back of the restaurant. “My shift’s almost over. Maybe I can join you for lunch?”

“I’d love that,” she says, genuinely, following me through the emptying restaurant.

I quickly take her order, adding on an extra entrée for me to eat. Mario never cares if we eat a meal during our shift, although he usually prefers we eat in the back. However, I need this time alone with Victoria to feel her out.

“How’s work?” I say, sitting across from her at the table.

“Busy, busy,” she says. “At least the semester will wrap up soon, which should give me some time to focus on my own writing.”

“When’s the next book come out?” I ask.

“Sometime after the first of the year,” she says. “I have an editorial calendar I try to follow, but I’m not sure I’ll meet my goal. That’s the beauty of self-publishing. If I need to rework the system, I can.”

“What you’ve been sharing in group has been great. I’m sure you’ll meet your deadline.”

“Thanks.” Victoria’s eyes survey the thinning crowd in the restaurant, before focusing on me. “I’m happy I ran into you,though. I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she says, “away from the group.”

“Oh, yeah?” I’d thought I was the one with an ulterior motive. “About what?”

“The story you’ve been working on lately,” she says. “The Mistake.”

My posture straightens. It’s the first time any of us have raised our writing in a one-on-one conversation. Is it possible she’s made a connection between the stories we share and the things that have been happening in my real life?

“The Layla story?” I ask, trying to keep my face from betraying my emotions.

“Not the most recent ones,” she says, her eyes getting big as she hurls a compliment. “Those have been excellent, don’t get me wrong. Your writing has been great, really gripping, but I keep going back to that first part. The one that centered around an attack, where you introduced the Layla character at the end. It felt so…” She pauses to find the right word, and my mind fills in the gap.Terrifying. Claustrophobic?—

“Personal,” she says. The word lands like an anchor in the water, pulling me down, down, down.

“It made me wonder if you were writing it from experience.”

This wasn’t the confrontation I was expecting. My eyes are beginning to water. I clear my throat before I speak. “All writing is rooted in experience, right?”

“Sure. I just…” It’s obvious Victoria has rehearsed this, and yet she still fails to find the right words. “You know, if you work on a campus long enough, you get familiar with the culture. Lots of students have come to me over the years.” She pauses. “If you were assaulted when you were a student?—”

“I wasn’t.” I stop her before she can finish the sentence.

She nods slowly, her smile tight, waiting for me to continue.

“I almost was. Just like in the story,” I say, “and that was enough.”

“Yes, it is.” She places her hand over mine and squeezes. “We all have close calls.”

My mind traipses through time, away from this winter of my adulthood, back to the summer of my youth, when all my surroundings felt shiny and new and full of promise.

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