Page 52 of The Writer

Marley has put a lot of research into her theory, but I’ve lived these experiences firsthand. The wounds from the police and the civil suit are still fresh, even after all these years. Everyone talking and taking sides. Blaming me. Clearly, the black hearts stalker still faults me, and I’m not going up against them without more proof.

“We should meet with the Mystery Maidens again,” I say. “Before going to the police.”

“Fine.” Slowly, she begins collecting the papers she brought with her. “It’s just unnerving, isn’t it? Continuing to meet with a group of women when you’re convinced one of them is a killer.”

“We’ve narrowed it down at least,” I say. “Only three left to suss out.”

“Does that mean you no longer consider me a suspect?”

Before I answer, I consider the question. Marley would be wasting a lot of time swapping information with me if she is the killer. I’m not sure what her angle would be, or why she’d toy with me in such a personal way. Regardless, now that we’re closer, it will be easier for me to keep tabs on her. There’s a feeling in my gut that tells me I still don’t know the full story.

Likewise, she still doesn’t have the full truth from me. I haven’t told her about the black hearts, that the person behind all of this might have been messing with me for the past decade.

“My shift is about to start,” I say, swerving a response. “The next meeting isn’t until Thursday. We’ll touch base before, figure out how we want to play this around the others.”

“Sounds good.” She doesn’t appear disappointed that I didn’t say I trusted her. Odds are, she still has reservations about me, too. “Hey, can I eat back here? I’m absolutely starving.”

“You look tired, too,” I say, watching as she leans into the booth.

“Yeah, well it was hard to sleep last night after everything we talked about,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck.

I can certainly relate. My lack of sleep over the past two weeks has taken its toll.

“I’ll grab you a menu.”

“No need,” she says, securing all her evidence inside her purse. “I’ll take potato skins or buffalo wings. Whatever’s cheapest. This seems like the type of place that would offer both.”

I’m not sure what’s more irritating, the fact Marley can eat whatever she wants and remain a size two, or her dismissive attitude to everything and everyone around her. College kids.It’s enough to make you want to knock them over the head with something.

With a shudder, I recall the brutal deaths we were just talking about and walk back to the main dining room.

TWENTY-SEVEN

It’s been a long night.

Some people, my own mother included, assume that because someone is writing down orders and carrying out steaming entrées with extra sides of ranch dressing, that service workers deserve less respect than people withrealjobs.

In reality, I’ve worked harder as a waitress than I have any other job in my life. You stack responsibilities in your head, making sure the needs of each and every customer are met. You learn how to read people, distinguish between the tables that want every need catered to and the ones who only want to be left alone. And after a full night of running around, fighting what feels like a losing battle, you’re tasked with mandatory upkeep. Tonight, that meant I was set to scrubbing the bathroom toilets and sinks.

My body aches with exhaustion, my clothes tinged with the unwelcome smells of frying grease and bleach. At least a hectic work shift meant I didn’t have time to think about the other issues in my life. I don’t think about Layla or the Maidens or the possibility of a killer on the loose until I’ve walked several blocks away from the restaurant. In an instant, I remember, andfrom that moment on, I spy every roaming shadow and passing pedestrian with skepticism and fear.

When I walk inside my apartment and click the lock behind me, I lean against the closed door and exhale a sigh of relief. I’m home. I’m safe. Images of myself sleeping in until noon comfort me.

“You’re home late,” Crystal says.

I open my eyes and see her sitting at the dining-room table. A steaming teacup sits to her right, and she’s facing the entrance of the apartment, as though she’s been waiting on me.

Shit, I think. Because of our conflicting schedules, we’re often like ships passing in the night. It’s easy to forget I even have a roommate, mainly because for so many years, I haven’t. We haven’t come face to face since I caught her snooping through my computer, right before I left for Banyon’s Bridge.

“It was a busy night,” I say, hoping she’ll take pity on me and let me go to bed.

“We need to talk,” she says. No such luck.

I slump into the chair across from her and lean back, waiting.

“Are you wanting to apologize for invading my privacy?” I ask.

Crystal lowers her head, hits me with an unbothered look. Easy pettiness flows between us, the way it only can after years upon years of knowing another person.

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