Page 41 of The Writer

TWENTY-TWO

I exit the car, cold air biting my cheeks. I burrow into myself, hands in pockets, chin buried into my scarf, as I make the short walk to Banyon’s Bridge. This time of night, there aren’t many people out. Marley should be easy to spot, but I want to keep my own presence a secret.

A small metal bench rests by the entrance of the bridge. I sit, the cold metal slats making my legs itch. Phone in hand, I try to appear busy, occupied. I want to blend in with the other passing pedestrians. It’s ten until midnight. Last call should have been twenty minutes ago, which means most people are crossing the bridge, heading to their cars parked on the busier side of the square.

Water babbles, although it’s impossible to see. The overhead lamps barely illuminate the railing and wooden planks below. A couple hurry across the bridge, and I get a whiff of cologne and whiskey as they pass.

Five until midnight.

Now, there’s only one person left on the bridge. An elderly man wearing a heavy, but tattered, trench coat. He’s likely one of the few homeless people known to frequent the area. There’s a shelter a few blocks from here, but I know from experienceworking at the restaurant, most people will stay out, even in the cold, hoping to get some food or money at the end of the night.

There’s a trash can located at the center of the bridge. The man makes his way to it and starts rummaging, confirming my theory that he’s homeless. From a story standpoint, I acknowledge he’d be the perfect victim. There’s no one around. It could be days before someone reports the man missing, if they ever do. If Marley, or anyone, is looking for a nameless victim, he would be it. In this moment, it hits me: this isn’t fiction. Maybe it’s the unforgiving cold or the heartbreaking image of a man sorting through garbage on a November night that makes me realize. This is real. I’ve set this entire situation up to catch a killer in the act, not fully comprehending I’d be placing another innocent person in harm’s way. I can’t have another person’s blood on my hands. Jessica Wilder’s death is already too much.

My instincts tell me to warn the man, but what exactly would I say?I wrote a story and now I’m afraid one of the members of my writing group will come here to kill you.It’s ridiculous, and yet my heartbeat races at the idea I’ve put this man, and myself, in danger.

In the distance, church bells from the local cathedral ring, the beautiful melody injecting some life into the cold, barren darkness.

It’s midnight.

The man, still the only person on the bridge, doesn’t raise his eyes from the trash can.

Just then, I hear footsteps. I look behind me, back to where my car is parked, but I see no one. The old cobblestone streets make the sound deceptive, and it’s difficult for me to tell where they’re coming from.

On the other side of the bridge, a person comes into view, a featureless, dark shadow moving in my direction. My heartstarts beating faster as I watch. The person mounts the bridge, moving closer to the unsuspecting man.

I stare at them. Is it a man? A woman? Marley. Whoever it is, they walk with intention, head low, hands deep inside the pockets of his or her dark coat. When I first wrote the story, it was nothing more than bait, a way to lure Marley out of hiding. Now, I wonder how easy it would be for fiction to shift over into reality. How easy would it be for Marley to attack this poor man and toss his body into the waters below? Maybe my presence will steer her away? Or maybe she won’t care at all.

The person is only a few steps away from the homeless man, his arm swallowed by the trash can as he digs inside. I stand quickly, my body urging me to intervene. Sweat builds between my skin and clothes, my lungs ache as I take in a sharp inhale of frigid air. I run over to the bridge, hoping I can do something, anything to stop what will happen next.

The person stops just behind the homeless man. If he or she sees me, there is no reaction. All their attention is on the man on the bridge, the next victim.

I break into a run, am about to call out, when I see the shadowy figure place a hand on the homeless man’s shoulder.

He turns.

The person reaches into one of their pockets and pulls something out. It gleams against the overhead light illuminating the bridge. It’s a handful of coins. Not much, but enough to buy something from the vending machines across the way.

In an instant, everything slows. My pulse, my breathing, my thoughts. I lean over, steadying my hands on my knees, like a person who has just finished running a marathon. Relief develops into exhaustion as I realize I wasn’t just about to witness a murder. There is no crime. No Marley. Only a person walking home in the cold, offering money to a beggar in need.

I’m still bent over, taking deep breaths, when the stranger walks past me.

“Everything okay?” the person asks. Only steps away now, so I’m able to make out their face. It’s an older woman, mid-fifties. A stranger.

I’m too stunned to answer, so I only nod. She passes me, and I look ahead at the homeless man, who is gathering his things and moving across the bridge.

Standing upright, I take in my surroundings. Another typical, sleepy weekday night. Bars are closed, which leaves no one on the streets, or the bridge, but me. I check the time. Five after midnight. My plan—an utterly foolish and absurd plan, I realize now—didn’t work. Marley isn’t going to be lured out of hiding so easily. Or perhaps, as Chaz insisted, there’s no crime to uncover at all, only a series of coincidences. If that’s the case, maybe I am going a bit mad, determined to see only what I want to see.

I walk over to the area where the homeless man was standing, peering over the edge to look at the waters below. I hear the roaring of the river and am immediately thankful I was wrong. There will be no bloodshed here tonight.

I raise my head, and that’s when I see it.

Attached to the lamppost is an envelope, speckled with drops of river water and condensation. A black heart is drawn on the front.

Icy fear shoots through me as I reach out to grab the envelope, my eyes darting from one end of the bridge to the other, searching. Still, there’s no one here. Only me and this message left behind.

I tear open the envelope.

The first sheet of paper is handwritten, a single line on the page:Becca, you’re better than this.

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