Page 54 of The Writer

“No. The symbol on it,” I say, annoyed. “The black heart.”

“I guess. I mean, it’s not really that special, is it?”

But it is, at least to me. And could be, to her. For the past decade, I’ve been receiving these warnings and threats. I’ve always known they must be tied back to Layla, but I never imagined that Crystal had been receiving them, too.

“Ever since Layla died,” I begin, my voice struggling to find strength, “these weird things have been happening. I keep getting these messages, and they always have a black heart on them. Just like Layla’s tattoo. They’ve shown up at my mother’s house, where I work, in my ex-boyfriend’s car. Even here, at this apartment. I need to know, have you been getting them, too?”

Crystal sits, lifting her chin just enough to let me know she’s thinking, retreating far enough to try and find an answer.

“Now that you mention it, I have received messages like that before. I’m trying to remember?—”

“How couldn’t you know?” I shout, outraged. “Someone might have been stalking you for the past decade, and you’ve never really thought about it?”

“You’re making it out to be more than it is. Like it’s some kind of threat.”

“It is a threat.”

“It’s a piece of paper. Someone messing with me. And with you, it seems. But that’s all it is. No one is actually doing anything.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “At least not anymore. Last week, someone slashed my tires and left a black heart beside my car. And remember that hit-and-run on our street? One was found there, too.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought it was only happening to me. But it makes sense. If this is about Layla, of course they’d be after you, too. We were both there that night.”

“No one is after me,” she says. “Someone might have been sending me messages, but that’s all it is. You can’t make them into something more.”

Her last comment bothers me. Is she suggesting I’m at fault for everything that’s happened? I’ve lost my job, my relationships, all because of the black hearts. Could it be they have ruined my life all these years because I gave them the power?

“Try to think,” I say, changing the subject. “Even one instance.”

“When I moved into my apartment with Thomas, there was one on our front door. I remember it clearly because the whole place was cleared out and then there was this random piece of paper, but I wadded it up and threw it away. I didn’t think anything about it.”

Our reactions to the same threat are jarring, really. While I’ve spent years in isolation, looking over my shoulder for the next black heart, she didn’t give the messages a second thought, didn’t even stop to consider their significance.

“I’ve been getting these since right after she died. The weekend I moved back home, in fact. I’ve been trying to figure out who it is, and this is the closest I’ve ever been.”

“I can tell you who it is.”

“Who?”

“Her parents. They’re the only ones who held her death against us.”

She’s right. The article that was left for me at the bridge was an abridged version of the saga that took place with Layla’s parents. They blamed us for her death, kept saying they’d trusted us to keep their daughter safe. Her real friends back home would never have left her alone.

“You really think they could be behind this?”

“Of course, they could. They tried to sue us, remember? They wanted to ruin our futures. At the time, I felt sorry for them. They’d lost their only daughter, but they let that grief turn into something menacing. Unhinged.”

“I’ve barely thought about them since the case was dropped.” And, honestly, I never considered they’d be capable of stalking me. They were so overwhelmed with grief. I remember hearing they went into early retirement, found it too difficult to leave their home, let alone follow me around town leaving messages. The death of their only daughter ruined them.

“Maybe that’s the point.” She walks over to me, and lifts the card, reading it. “Remember.”

“They never forgave us for what happened,” I say, thinking.

If Layla’s parents have been sending the black hearts all these years, how would they have access to the stories from the group? And how could they be linked to the murders Marley hasuncovered? It suddenly feels like there are too many crimes I’m trying to solve at once. Maybe the same person who has been stalking me for the past decade is not the same person copying crimes from the stories. Maybe one of the members from the group has crossed paths with Layla’s parents, and now they’re working together. Trying to unravel these endless possibilities makes my head hurt. I worry how much more of this I can take.

“It’s just not fair, is it? Layla had so much to offer the world. More than either one of us, if we’re being honest,” she says, wiping her nose. “Why is it always the good ones that get taken away?”

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