Page 51 of The Writer

Marley sifts through papers again.

“Please, if you’re sharing anymore gruesome photos, don’t,” I protest.

“I left the most gruesome ones back at the apartment. Things would have been a lot easier if you’d agreed to meet me there.” Finally, she finds what she’s looking for. It’s another photo from the crime scene, but this time it’s only of the victim’s hand. “Do you see that?”

“It’s a hand,” I say. “I’m more worried about your access to such disturbing images.”

She ignores me. “Look at his ring finger. Do you see that white band? That’s where his wedding ringshouldbe, but he wasn’t wearing it.”

“Maybe he was divorced. Or separated.”

“Nope. Wife and two kids, according to the obituary. After some more digging online, I discovered Rudy had the reputation of being a cheat. Just like the character in the story.”

“What about the murder weapon?” I ask, becoming more uneasy.

“Nothing was found at the scene. Based on the indentations around his neck, cops thought it could have been a belt.”

“Just like the story.”

My eyes bounce between the various piles, trying to make sense of everything. There’s undoubtedly a connection between each crime and its corresponding story, but there’s no smoking gun, no remarkable coincidence that convinces me these crimes were inspired by anything at all.

Unlike Marley, I’m well-read when it comes to the crime genre. If I were to scroll through any random writer’s catalogue, I’d likely find a story where someone was bludgeoned or strangled with a belt, killed in an alley or dumped near a playground. You read enough of the same material, all the elements blur together. It’s near impossible to come up with anything original these days; why should murder be any different?

“You still have that look on your face,” Marley says, displeased. “If you don’t believe me about the first two murders, what makes you so convinced the most recent one is connected to the group?”

“For starters, everything that’s happened to me started in the last two weeks. The murders you are talking about happened two years ago.”

“Not too long after the Mystery Maidens group started. And I know, the stories we’re looking at were written by different members. You, Danielle and April.”

“Are you suggesting it has to be Victoria?”

“Maybe. But that seems too simple,” she says. “All of them would have read the stories. It doesn’t matter who wrote them. My theory is one of the members decided to act out the murders they read about.”

It’s the same theory I’ve proposed about Jessica Wilder’s murder, and the other copycat crimes that took place before, but all those incidents have a clear connection back to me and the black hearts. If what Marley is suggesting is true, someone was acting out stories before I even joined the group. “Why would they do this?”

“What pushes anyone to commit a crime? Especially random ones. Something psychological beneath the surface.”

I recall my conversations this week with the Maidens. They each have stressors in their lives. April’s divorce. Victoria’s married lover. Danielle’s loneliness. But is any of it enough to push them over the edge, make them start committing murders? Maybe we’re looking at this puzzle all wrong. My black hearts stalker and the recent crime spree could be separate crimes, different culprits. If you add Marley’s theory into the mix, it could be another sequence entirely. Yet, why are the two suddenly interconnected?

“The first victims were also men,” I say, popping my knuckles. “Why kill a woman this time?”

“Because that was the victim inyourstory!” Marley says this as though it’s clear and I’m being stupid.

“I get what you’re saying, I do,” I say, feeling the need to calm her before my co-workers come wandering around asking questions. “I’m convinced the Layla story inspired a murder because of the timing. Less than a week after I shared it, a girl was killed in the same manner.”

I tap my knuckles against the third stack, urging Marley to look. She scans the details of my story, cross-referencing them with the information provided in the news article.

“There are more similarities between the Layla story and this murder,” she admits.

“They’re nearly identical.”

A surge of guilt rattles through me, stronger than I’ve ever felt before. For years, I’ve blamed myself for Layla’s death. Clearly, the black hearts stalker agrees. If I’d been more forceful with Layla, told her the truth about why I felt she was in danger, she wouldn’t have died. Now, because I chose to revisit her story through my writing, Jessica Wilder’s blood is on my hands, too. At every opportunity to make things right, I’ve floundered, leaving nothing but heartache and tragedy in my wake.

“Maybe so.” She puts the paper flat on the table. “But that’s not why you’re more passionate about this crime than the others. It’s because you already knew the Layla crime was based on your friend’s murder. You have a personal connection to this story, so a new body being found brings it all back.”

“If I had a reaction every time a woman was found murdered, I’d have been in a nuthouse by now,” I say, my jaw clenched. “Unfortunately, a woman being taken advantage of on her way home isn’t an original concept.”

“The point is you care about your friend. The details of her murder stuck with you. They inspired you to write the story. And the idea that someone took those details and used them to commit a new crime infuriates you.”

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