Page 45 of The Writer

Marley.

I realize now what’s bothered me about her since our first meeting. She reminds me of Layla. Their flowy maxi skirts and layered accessories. The way both their hair is a tangled mess of curls and bohemian braids. Even the small tattoos—a black sparrow and a black heart. When I first saw Marley, standing beside my table at McCallie’s Pub, it was like seeing a ghost, a long-lost friend I’d expected to never see again. Marley didn’t belong, just like Layla has never belonged in the avoidable tragedy that took her life.

Could it be yet another coincidence? Two college students, a decade apart, with similar styles. If Marley left the article and the black heart at the bridge, it means she knows about my past. Her intentions might be darker. Maybe she’s purposely dressing herself like my deceased best friend, another way for her to get under my skin.

Once my fingers are warm, I wrap them around the steering wheel and reverse onto the street. It’s foolish to confront a could-be killer at all, let alone after midnight. Yet, anger overrides my logic as I drive in the direction of Marley’s apartment.

There’s ample street parking across from her building. I remain inside the car, peering out the window at the old-world apartment complex. Ivy climbs the dark redbrick, a wrought-iron fire escape connected to each floor. That’s where I see her. Marley is alone in the dark, lounging in a cushioned seat at the corner of the fire escape. The dangling fairy lights wrapped around the railing illuminate her silhouette.

It’s awfully late and too cold to be sitting outside alone. She’s in college, I remind myself. Midnight is when things typically get going around that age. Yet Marley isn’t at some kegger or pub, she’s sitting alone in the darkness. Why? Perhaps she just recently returned home from Banyon’s Bridge.

In the passenger seat, the photograph of Layla stares up at me. The article used the same one that all the papers did, an old senior portrait. There were more recent ones, but I suspect publications chose this specific picture for a reason. Her clear blue eyes speak to her youthful innocence, her wide smile reminds people, like me right now, how cruelly she was taken from the world.

I replay that last night we had together, her last night on earth, over and over again. What I said to her during that conversation haunts me, but I’m more bothered by what I didn’t say. If only I’d been more assertive when I told her about what Mike did to me, or what he tried to do, maybe she wouldn’t have stayed behind. I’d been so afraid to admit what happened, even to myself, that I let my uncertainty overthrow what was right, and Layla paid for my mistake with her life.

Long-buried regret rumbles in my chest as I open the car door and meet the cold night air. The article clenched in my fist, I cross the street, standing directly below Marley’s balcony, the tie-dye tapestries ruffling in the cold night breeze.

“I know you’re up there,” I shout, an angry Romeo calling out to a twisted Juliet. Several seconds pass before Marley approaches the railing. Shadows obscure her features, but it’s clearly her peering down into the near-empty street.

“Becca?” Marley is wearing dark loungewear, her hair atop her head in a messy bun. A lit cigarette is pinched between her fingers.

“Are we going to talk about this?” I raise the article and shake my fist at her. My voice is louder this time, fully conveying my anger. The potential someone might hear me doesn’t register. In fact, I welcome witnesses. Strength in numbers and all.

Marley raises the cigarette to her lips and inhales. “What is that? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know it was you,” I say, my anger overriding that small, sane voice inside that insists I’m in over my head. “I know everything was you. I wrote that story to draw you out to Banyon’s Bridge, but you figured me out.”

Marley puts the cigarette out on the iron railing, small sparks sprinkling down. “Becca, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you want to come inside?—”

“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” I scoff. “I’m not entering the apartment of a murderer.”

That last word comes out in a thud, echoing down the quiet streets. Marley’s grip on the railing tightens.

“Fine. I’ll come to you. There’s a diner down the block. I can meet you there in ten minutes,” she pauses, “and we’ll talk.”

I stare up, saying nothing. I thought it would be harder to get her to cooperate. I anticipated more back and forth, more yelling. Denial. Maybe Marley is more strategic than I gave her credit for. If she is a narcissistic murderer, the last thing she needs is her neighbors to overhear the accusation. And the diner provides more cover and safety for me, even at this desolate time of night.

Tightening my coat around me, I hurry down the block. I assume she’s talking about the Red Buzzer; it’s the only all-night establishment around here. I need to get there before her and give myself plenty of time to think about what I want to say. Myanger craved a confrontation, but now I need to be smart. This might be my only chance to prove my suspicions, and I can’t mess it up.

Surprisingly, the diner is packed. I suppose that’s to be expected since it’s so close to a college campus. There’s a free booth by the far window. I snag it, my fingers shaking as I flatten the envelope and article on the table. The waitress arrives and I order a coffee, just as I see Marley, a heavy coat over her comfortable clothes, enter the building.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” She sits across from me, her hands in her pockets. There’s a look of annoyance on her face, or maybe it’s amusement and she’s gaining some kind of sick pleasure from watching me squirm.

“You know what’s going on,” I say with confidence.

“I can assure you that I don’t.” She smiles when the waitress returns to our table and orders a coffee. Her voice is laid-back and easy, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Once the waitress walks away, she leans against the backrest and crosses her arms over her chest. Those light-gray eyes narrow. “Care to tell me why you were screaming outside of my apartment in the middle of the night?”

I hold up the article. She leans closer, her eyes scanning it. She shakes her head.

“What is that?”

“It’s the message you left for me at the bridge,” I say, growing more irritated by the second.

“What bridge?” She raises her hands at this, flapping them in the air. “Becca, I’m completely lost here.”

“Banyon’s Bridge. The one in my story,” I say with conviction. The waitress returns to deliver Marley’s coffee, and I realize how loud my voice is getting, how irrational I must appear. I clear my throat and begin again. “The story I sharedtonight was about a man that was murdered on a bridge, remember?”

“Vaguely.”

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