Page 53 of The Writer

“Do you think I should apologize?”

“Well, I’ve been kind enough to let you stay here.” My tone is pompous, nothing like how I normally speak. “You know I’m protective of my writing.”

“And now I see why,” she says. “You’re writing a story about Layla of all people. How could you do that?”

“I’m not writing a story about Layla?—”

“You used her name!” Crystal shouts. “All those details. The bar and the walk home andhim.” She shakes her head, disgusted. “Why would you do something like that?”

I exhale, trying to think of a way to explain myself. In the ten years since our friend’s death, I can count on one hand the times Crystal and I have talked about her. We’ve both found it easier to not bring it up. Bringherup. I’m just as ashamed of myself, but I can’t let her know that. After years of knowing Crystal, it’s never a good idea to let her think she has the upper hand in a conversation, even when she does.

“I’ve been struggling with writer’s block,” I say. “For weeks, I haven’t been able to write about anything. The other night I had a nightmare about Layla. I couldn’t get her off my mind. So, I wrote a story about what happened. I never had any intention of publishing it. It was just my mind’s way of getting those thoughts out of my head.”

Crystal nods, as though understanding what I’ve said, but her simmering anger remains. “It was upsetting having to relive those details, especially knowing you wrote them.”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” I say. “You’re the one who chose to go through my computer.”

“I wasn’t snooping, okay? The screen was on, and the story was pulled up. I was curious. You always talk about what you’re writing, but I’ve never really had a look. The last thing I was expecting was to read a story about Layla.”

“It’s never happened before.” I say the next part with finality. “And it will never happen again.”

“Did your friends from your writing group read that story?”

“They did.”

Crystal clenches her jaw and looks away. “Layla deserves more than to be entertainment for some murder-obsessed freaks.”

“It’s not entertainment for any of us. I already told you; it was my own way of working out what I was feeling. None of them know that story was based on a real event.”

But at least one of them does. Two, if you’re counting Marley. The person who is toying with me and left that newspaper article at Banyon’s Bridge knows the truth of what happened ten years ago.

“The anniversary is coming up, you know,” Crystal says. She’s looking down at the table trying not to cry. “I’ve been thinking about her more and more lately.”

“I have too,” I admit, recalling the recent string of phone calls from my mother. She wants to remind me of what happened, when all I want to do is forget. “Writing that story was like therapy more than anything. I’d never use what happened to Layla for personal gain.”

Crystal nods, slowly. I sense she believes me now. Even though we don’t talk about that night, I believe the details live in her head just as vividly as they do mine. I believe she carries the same blame that I do. If she hadn’t been so drunk, we would never have left her in the first place. Although, what I did was worse. I knew Mike was dangerous, but I left her behind anyway.

I move to the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with tap water. I lean against the counter, drinking furiously, overtaken with a sudden need to rehydrate and cleanse myself from the inside out. In the corner of the kitchen sits a bouquet of flowers in a vase. A seasonal selection. Reds and greens and small white clouds of baby’s breath.

“You bought flowers?”

“No, someone sent them,” Crystal says, not even raising her head. “I’m sure they’re from Thomas.”

“He’s still trying to get you back?”

With everything that’s been happening, I almost forgot why Crystal is here. Her engagement fell apart, her wedding calledoff. Night after night, I’ve watched her go out on the town, envious of her ability to move on from what happened to Layla. I forget not everything has been easy on her.

I move closer to the flowers, touching them, the petals soft like velvet, the floral scent fresh and alive, at odds with everything else inside this apartment. In the center of the arrangement, rests a card. I step back so fast, I almost send the entire bouquet crashing to the ground.

“You don’t know for sure?” My voice is high-pitched and painful.

“There wasn’t a name.” She looks at me now. “Why?”

I return to the bouquet, plucking out the card. There’s only one word:Remember. Beside it, is a black heart.

“Have you ever seen one of these before?” I ask, holding out the card.

“A florist’s note?”

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