Page 46 of The Writer

I ignore the dig. “I wrote it because I know what you’ve been doing.”

“And what is that exactly?” She raises the mug to her lips, waiting.

“You’ve been copying the stories we write about in group. First it was the car with the slashed tires. And then the hit-and-run on my street.” I pause, lowering my tone an octave more, fully aware of how paranoid I sound. “And then there was the woman murdered outside the pub.”

Marley’s beautiful gray eyes go wide. She carefully puts her coffee mug on the table, laces her fingers together and leans forward.

“I’m sorry. Are you accusing me of murder?”

“I am,” I say, determined. Here, in this setting, with the article about Layla beside me, it no longer seems ridiculous. I look at Marley, and I see someone willing to go to extreme lengths, if for no other reason than her own entertainment. Leaving the article was her way of toying with me, my punishment for catching onto her games, but by calling her out, I’m making it clear the match isn’t over yet.

“I’m listening,” she says, never shifting her eyes away from me.

“I started noticing the connection last week. I wrote the story about a man being murdered at the bridge because I wanted to lure you there and confront you before anything happened. I wanted to catch you.”

Marley raises her eyebrows. “You were willing to put an innocent man at risk to prove you were right? That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, well it didn’t work, did it?” I raise the article again. “Somehow, you figured out what I was doing and left this behind to punish me.”

She casts her eyes over it, reading, a quizzical look on her face.

“Oh my,” she says. “You’re the Becca in this article, aren’t you?”

My teeth grind against each other. “You know that I am.”

Marley raises her hand in the air, calling over the waitress for a fourth time.

“I think I’d like to order the stuffed French toast with a side of grits,” she tells her. “Looks like we’re going to be here a while. Want anything, Becca?”

I remain silent. She must be more psychotic than I thought. I’ve just accused her of murder, and she’s rewarding herself with food.

“I’ve already gone to the police, you know.” I must keep control of the conversation, make Marley understand her little mind games aren’t affecting me.

“You did?” She feigns surprise. “Let me guess, they laughed you off.”

I lock my jaw, fighting not to show a reaction.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I know you’re behind this. Even if people don’t believe me now, it won’t be hard to find proof. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“That they do.” She takes a packet of sugar and adds it to her coffee. “Quick question, why have you settled on me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, your theory is that someone in the Mystery Maidens is using our stories as inspiration to go out and commit crimes,” she says. “Why me?”

“I’ve been a member of the group for over a year, and nothing like this has ever happened before. Not until two weeks ago, after you joined.”

“I see. That certainly makes sense.”

The playful quality of her voice angers me. She’s getting too much enjoyment from this confrontation.

“You’re not even a real writer,” I say. “I know thatRosebudwas plagiarized.”

Marley snorts. “My, my. You have done your research.”

“I’ve just accused you of murder and you’re acting like this is some kind of game,” I say. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Marley exhales, leaning harder onto the table, the skin of her elbows flattening against the Formica surface.

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