Page 42 of The Writer

The second sheet of paper isn’t a message, but an old newspaper article. A copy of one, at least:

Civil suit dropped against two co-eds

A civil suit was dropped this week against the two college students accused of endangering their friend. The suit was brought on by Charles and Lena Williams, parents of the murdered Whitaker University student, Layla Williams.

Last winter, Williams’ case horrified locals when her body was found in a drainage ditch on campus, not far from the local bar where she was last seen. After a swift investigation, Michael Massey was arrested and charged with her murder. Massey has a court date later this spring.

The Williams made headlines again when they decided to go after Layla’s roommates in court, Becca Walsh and Crystal Meyers.

“We have to hold people accountable,” Lena Williams told reporters at the time. “Michael Massey might have taken my daughter’s life, but he never would have had the opportunity if she’d not been abandoned by her friends.”

The decision of the Williams family to bring charges against the girls was controversial, with many in the community rallying behind the grieving parents, while others defended the young girls. When asked to comment on the dropped case, the Williams family declined.

Dallas Layman, who represented the girls in the civil suit, told reporters, “We ask for consideration and kindness for the Williams family during this difficult time. The man who murdered Layla is behind bars, and it’s important we remember that. He is the only person to blame for this tragedy.”

By the time I finish reading the article, my hands are shaking. I’m suddenly so disoriented and woozy, there’s the very real possibility I could faint and topple into the icy waters below.

TWENTY-THREE

I met Layla and Crystal on the same day. We were gathered for freshman orientation in the lobby of the dorm building we’d soon call home. None of us roomed together back then; we’d each been assigned to bunk up with other random girls. Yet, the three of us somehow locked eyes, found ourselves giggling in unison at the RA’s archaic rules and corny jokes.

“I’m Layla,” she said, her fingers dancing as she waved. She had a true bohemian whimsy about her, from the rows upon rows of friendship bracelets on her wrists to the small braids tangled throughout her long brown hair. When she smiled, the room around her grew brighter, inviting everyone in.

That’s the cliché, isn’t? That every murder victim somehow lit up a room. But with Layla, it was true. I can picture that first meeting all these years later, and I still feel warm inside.

The three of us clicked immediately, and soon became inseparable. We were located on the same floor, thankfully, and spent that first year exploring everything together. The Dos and Don’ts of campus parties. The best coffee shops to visit in between classes. We had a running list of professors to avoid and which ones to impress. Not once did I feel that pang of loneliness my other high school friends used to talk about, thehomesickness that plagued them in those first few months away. And it was all because of Crystal and Layla.

That andFriends. Whenever we started to feel low, it was our tradition to binge-watch the show together. It all reminded us of home and our families in different ways. Layla was the Phoebe of our group, free-spirited and kind-hearted. Crystal, of course, was the Rachel. Chic and adorable, with just a hint of selfishness. That made me the Monica. Dedicated, determined, reliable.

Layla and I were both Whitaker implants, which bonded us further. Crystal was born and raised here, but for us, our every experience was new, different from the sleepy towns where we grew up. Rarely did we talk about our childhoods; we found it more meaningful to build new lives and identities for ourselves on campus. For some reason, I always thought Layla had a bad home life. She’d come back from weekend visits shaken, but she’d never want to talk about what happened. Sometimes seeing people from the past can be uncomfortable—I certainly felt that way every time I visited my mother—which made my friendships on campus even more important.

With each passing year, our bond grew. By the time we’d entered our junior year, the three of us decided to rent a house together on Magnolia Avenue, the perfect location between campus and the lively downtown. Layla and I were never big drinkers, were more often witnesses to Crystal’s over-the-top antics. Over time, I think that’s how Layla and I became even closer; while Crystal was busy being the center of attention, we clung to each other.

Over a decade has passed since the night she died, and yet it still haunts me, looms over me, my forever shadow in the dark.

Things were never meant to unravel the way they did. It was supposed to be a typical Thursday night. Ordinary. Crystal, Layla and I were at Twisted Timmy’s Lounge for their infamous ladies’ night. We were supposed to drink and dance and shootpool. We were supposed to stumble home and submit to sleep. At worst, we might snooze through our alarms and be late for class.

But nothing about that night ended up being ordinary, nor has any other part of my life been ever since.

The three of us sat at the bar enjoying discounted bottled beer and a platter of greasy cheese curds. It was nearing the end of the fall semester, and what we needed more than anything was to blow off some steam, as we had so many nights before.

A young man took the corner seat at the bar, the one beside Layla. I don’t think any of us noticed him at first; we were so lost in our own conversation. Then, he laughed at something one of us—probably Crystal—said. Slowly, he entered the conversation.

“I’m Mike,” he said, his eyes smiling. He held out his hand to shake Layla’s, and I could feel the energy between them like static electricity in the air. Something else, too. Like I’d met him before, but neither his name or face rang any immediate alarms.

Layla never paid boys much attention, had far bigger interests, but something about Michael, something abouthim, captured her attention that night. Anyone nearby could tell.

“Want to hit the dance floor?” Crystal asked, her eyes speaking a secret language. She knew I was nowhere near drunk enough to enjoy dancing, but she clearly wanted to give the two some privacy.

“He’s cute, right?” I said to Crystal, cutting my eyes back to the couple at the bar.

“Totally,” Crystal said, looking over my shoulder. “Good for her.”

In between songs, I’d glance back at Layla. She looked so incredibly happy. Blushing cheeks. Hair tossing with each full-bellied laugh. Mike appeared gentle, the way he’d lean into her without getting too close. Layla was never shy about tellingguys when they were making her uncomfortable. That night, she appeared more relaxed than I’d seen her in months.

As the night carried on, I thought about them less and less. Crystal ordered more drinks, eventually started downing my shots when I confessed to reaching my limit. Soon, my concern became her. She was getting sloppy, losing her balance and bumping into strangers.

It became clear we needed to call it a night. As I made the march back to the bar, it suddenly hit me where I’d met Mike before.

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