Page 4 of The Writer

“April?” Victoria asks. “We know you have the most going on outside of writing.”

“The hubs can handle the kids an extra night a week,” she says, giddily. “I think it would be fun, and another excuse to get me out of the house.”

Now, they’re all staring at me, waiting for a response. I can’t string a lousy paragraph together, let alone an entire novel, but I’m not going to be the one to opt out, not when the rest of them have found ways to make writing a priority.

“I’m in,” I say, hiding my discomfort behind a smile.

“Let’s meet at the same time this Thursday,” Victoria decides, raising her wine glass. “Let the games begin.”

We each raise our drinks and clink them together. As the dry, satisfying taste of tequila glides down my throat, I try not to think about the failures the following weeks could bring.

I bump shoulders and elbows as I make my way out of the pub and onto the street. The temperature has dropped, everyexhale producing a cloud in front of my face. I’m about to turn in the direction of my car when I see something across the street.

A black heart.

It’s sticking to a parking meter beside a lamppost, the falling light illuminating it perfectly. My own heart catches in my throat as I rush forward. A bright light stings my eyes as a car in the road slams on its brakes, narrowly avoiding me. The horn blares, but I continue forward, until my fingers are pressed against the cold metal.

My pulse slows. It isn’t a heart, after all, merely a black smiley face sticker, the front of the forehead ripped off. I sigh with relief. At least that’s one less thing to worry about tonight.

THREE

As I walk home, I search the area for anything that appears out of place, a rogue black heart intentionally left along my path. Nothing captures my attention, and when my paranoia dies, I find myself scanning the streets for inspiration, hoping the commotion around me will present potential story ideas. Whitaker is small, but lively. The main hub of activity is the twelve-block section reserved for WU, littered with bars and restaurants. It’s after ten o’clock, which means there are just enough people crowding the cobblestone streets of downtown. Here, the business and residential districts are intertwined. There’s a dessert shop beside a bar, and across the street from that is a two-story colonial I’ve always admired.

A young couple sharing ice cream on a park bench beneath the lamplight. A trio of men, their balance wavering as they leave one pub and head to the next. An old woman stands on her lattice-lined porch, just now taking down the rubber skeleton hanging on her front door.

Each vignette grabs my attention temporarily, but eventually falls flat. Coming up with an idea is never the problem. It’s taking that idea and stretching it that becomes daunting.

WithNight Beat, it was simple. I’d watched aDatelineepisode that first sparked my interest. Just as I search the newspapers for inspiration, I do the same with all forms of media. Television shows and documentaries and podcasts—all serve as a kind of starting point for the strenuous marathon that is writing a novel. Most ideas, if they interest me long enough, morph into the same question: What if?

What if the person reporting on crime suddenly found herself investigating one?

What if she suspected the person closest to her was the culprit?

How would she use her background and experiences to combat that situation?

WritingNight Beatwas a thrilling experience, one that’s become increasingly harder to imitate. When a good idea strikes you, it’s impossible to ignore. When a good idea evades you, that’s when you really start to lose your mind. It’s like I’m drowning in a sea of potential, and each structure I cling to for support turns out to be yet another piece of unsteady debris, making me sink further.

My body rattles at the sound of a blaring car horn. A young woman darts across the road in front of the car, holding up her hand in apology. The noise brings me out of my endless brain fog, makes me fully aware of my surroundings. I think of the black heart—what I thought was the black heart—on the parking meter. It turned out to be nothing at all, which wouldn’t be the first time my paranoia has gotten the best of me. There’s no denying that one was left for me in my mailbox, so it’s only natural part of my brain will be searching for another message wherever I go. That’s been the pattern.

The first time I received a note was the day I moved out of my college apartment. My things had been thrown into cardboard boxes. I stood next to the mess of belongings on the sidewalk,staring at the Christmas lights which decorated the lampposts, waiting on my mother to pick me up. She thought it was only for a holiday break, that going home would helpclear my head. I knew I’d never come back to Whitaker University, not as a student.

I turned around, looking at the idyllic campus landscape, most beautiful in winter, and an icy shudder ran through my body. Too much had happened here, and I couldn’t forget the wrong that had been done to me, just as I couldn’t forgive myself for the wrong I’d done.

When Mom finally arrived, I hurriedly threw the boxes into her Suburban, eager to find warmth inside the car. As I pushed the last box into the trunk, it caught my eye. A single piece of paper with a black heart. Only a hurried sketch, I’d thought. Something that my roommate had added to my box by mistake.

It wasn’t until another heart showed up on Christmas Day—the one carved into the trunk of my childhood home—that I noticed the pattern. Sometimes the notes come with a message, some more threatening than others. The most recent message is easy enough to figure out—10. It’s been ten years since it happened, and maybe if I’d kept my promise, and never returned to Whitaker, my life wouldn’t be in shambles.

Another blast of icy wind blows my hair away from my face. It’s striking how quickly winter is approaching. It almost feels like that night I left campus all those years ago. By the time I reach my apartment, my fingers are stiff from the cold.

My apartment isn’t much to brag about. In fact, the one I lived in as a student would have been considered an upgrade, although that place has long since been demolished. My current building’s three-story structure only holds six units, so I rarely run into neighbors. The central location—my apartment is sandwiched between a coffee shop and a laundromat—providesjust enough protection. I rarely feel scared or unsafe, even with the threat of an unseen stalker nearby.

I climb the rickety stairs that lead to the top floor and enter my unit.

The dining-room table is just as lonely and unwelcoming as it was when I left this evening. My half-empty coffee mug sits beside piles of notebooks, the pages littered with more ideas that never seem to stick. I think about the stories the other Maidens shared during our meeting, and that twisting feeling of failure returns.

Something clatters against the ground. A sound coming from the back of the apartment, toward where my bedroom is. My eyes dart over to the kitchen, my gaze landing on the knife block. Watch enough48 Hoursand news reports, and your first thought is liable to be a defensive one when you hear a sound in the dead of night. And with the presence of the black hearts, whoever has been tormenting me all this time is back, and getting closer.

Cautiously, I make my way over to the kitchen, just as another sound, this time closer, lands. One of the bedroom doors opens with a creak.

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