Page 50 of The Writer

“It’s better for us to work out what we’re going to say,” I tell her. “And it’s too late for either one of us to think clearly. We’ll go to the police when we’re ready.”

Marley reads over the bill, takes out a twenty, and tucks it beneath the corner of her dirty plate. When she sees I’ve barely moved, she says, “You coming?”

“I’m going to stay for one more coffee,” I say. “It’s a lot of information to take in. I need some more caffeine before I drive home.”

“Well, be careful,” she warns. “Not that I’m trying to scare you, but if someone left a message for you to find, they’re threatening you.”

“Yeah, I will be.”

As Marley leaves, the waitress returns to the table, refilling my mug and collecting the dirty plates. I keep my eyes on Marley, watching as she crosses the street in the direction of her apartment. Eventually, it’s too dark for me to see her silhouette.

I look down in my lap. The conversation we had was exhausting. It feels like we were in the diner for hours.

It was only forty-eight minutes and seventeen seconds. I know because the recording app I had playing continues to run. My phone is slippery in my hands from the tight grip I had on the device throughout our meeting.

It may have been foolish to meet Marley alone like this, but I would at least ensure whatever we talked about would berecorded. I’d been hoping to get a confession on tape. Instead, she claimed that whoever killed Jessica Wilder has been active far longer than I realized. I was convinced the copycat killer was targeting me over something related to Layla, but what if it’s something much larger? How am I supposed to protect myself when I don’t know who to trust? Danger looms nearby, like a cold chill settling in.

TWENTY-SIX

The backroom of Mario’s Pizzeria remains closed until dinner. Most days, that’s where servers will go to eat a quick meal during their shift or roll silverware when business is slow. Today, it’s where I’ve asked Marley to meet me.

For over an hour, we’ve been alone, discussing the likelihood that one of the other members of our writing group could be a killer, and as bizarre as the theory sounds every time I say it aloud, the possibility is slowly beginning to materialize.

Mainly, because I can now attach names and faces to the previous crimes Marley told me about.

To my left, is a pile containing all the information about the first murder.

Brandon Davis, a WU freshman. He’s the one that was bludgeoned in an alley outside of a bar. Friends had seen him leave the establishment alone. Somewhere along the ten-minute walk back to his apartment, he’d stumbled into an alley and was hit over the head almost a dozen times with a blunt object. His body was discovered by a city trash worker the following morning.

“Here’s the story that goes along with that one,” Marley says, handing it over.

Flower Manby Danielle. It’s a story I’ve never read before, one that was shared before I joined the Mystery Maidens.

I scan the story again, pulling for details that carry it over the threshold into nonfiction.

The live band’s music mellowed as the man left the bar… the darkened alley carved between the laundromat and the takeout shops became his final resting place… the wooden slab shot into the sky before making brutal contact with his head… blood splattered on his shirt…

There are obvious similarities between the story and the crime, but my confidence still wavers.

“I’m seeing a short story about a man that was attacked and a news report about a man that was murdered,” I say. “It’s not like it’s the most original idea or the first violent crime to ever happen. How do you know there’s a link?”

Marley shuffles through the stack of papers, pulling out a photograph. It’s a shot from the crime scene, a man laying inert on the pavement, dark splotches on his vibrant shirt, a mangled mess where his head used to be.

“Wow, Marley, that’s enough,” I say, shielding my eyes. “Where did you even get that?”

“Some of the photos were leaked online.” She looks down, pointing. “Really study it. Look at the businesses closest by?—”

“China One Takeout and Ninth Street Laundromat,” I finish her sentence, pushing the crime scene photo away. “I get what you’re saying. It’s just like what’s in the story, but there’s no proof there’s a connection.”

“I could say the same things aboutThe Mistakeand the murder of Jessica Wilder,” she says, pointedly. “You’re convinced they’re connected, aren’t you?”

The implication is clear. I’m treating her no different than Chaz did when I first brought him my suspicions. If I expect to be believed, I need to at least hear through the rest of Marley’s theory.

“Okay. What makes you so convinced the second murder was connected?”

We move our attention to the stack of papers directly in front of me. The second murder took place almost six months after the first. Similar location and victimology. Looking at their photos, the two men even look the same. The main difference is that the second man, Rudy Raines, died from strangulation.

The story Marley believes inspired this murder is titledLost Causeand was written by April. It’s about a philandering husband who is encountered by his jilted lover and murdered. She lures him into a park late at night, where she wraps a belt around his throat and strangles him.

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