Page 55 of The Writer

I wonder if she’s aware of Jessica Wilder’s murder last week. If she is, she hasn’t said anything about it. Maybe she read about it in the papers, and that’s why she is so emotional now.

“I’m not sure if you saw, but there was a girl who was killed?—”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” Crystal raises her hand, hardens her voice. “I’m not like you, okay? Writing messed up stories and reading the news doesn’t help me cope with my feelings. I try to ignore it. Iwantto ignore it. I need to believe I live in a world of rainbows and butterflies, even if that’s bullshit.”

I close into myself. It’s easy for me to brush off Crystal as materialistic, but maybe she’s unlocked the secret to moving past tragedy. Living in the moment prevents her from being consumed by the past, and though I’m reluctant to admit it, she’s accomplished much more in the past ten years than I have, even if there have been some missteps, like with Chase. She has a thriving career and social life. Breaking off the engagement with Thomas was a setback, but she seems to be bouncing back effortlessly.

Then there’s me, wallowing in my own self-pity.

“Are we going to be able to move past this story?” I ask her. “I didn’t write it to hurt you or anyone else.”

Her posture softens. “Of course, we will. You’re, like, my oldest friend.”

“I’m sorry it upset you,” I say. “That was never my intention.”

An hour later, when I’m in bed, trying to fall asleep, I wonder, what was my intention writing that story? And what chain of events might I have unknowingly put into action? I’m starting to lose track of how many people have been harmed since I first wroteThe Mistake.

One thing is clear: there are two new names on the Black Hearts Stalker suspect list.

Charles and Lena Williams.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Layla’s hometown wasn’t something she talked a lot about. That’s the beauty of going to college. You get to take the parts of yourself you like with you, the parts that you haven’t fully developed yet, and leave all the rest behind.

Of course, she talked about her childhood at times. Funny stories about recess and holiday traditions. Things like that. I knew she had two devoted parents, still married after more than thirty years. She had an older brother who went to college out of state. Rarely did she talk about people she’d dated, but I knew there was a small group of girlfriends she’d had since elementary school. Based on what she said, it sounded as though Layla lived a charmed life.

Still, there was a feeling I always had, beyond what she said. It’s the way she would act after an extended visit back home—holiday breaks and long weekends. Whenever she returned, she always seemed upset. As though the person she’d once been clashed with the person she was now. She’d never elaborate; I figured it was the same sort of growing pains most people experience when they go out into the world for the first time.

After she died, and I saw how viciously her parents went after Crystal and me in the courts, I wondered if maybe there weremore complications in their relationship than she ever let on. Grief is a hard thing to understand. I can’t imagine being in their shoes, but I always felt that blaming us for Layla’s death was the wrong route. We all had our faults that night, but it was only the choices of Michael Massey that led to her death.

At least, that’s what I tell myself when my own conscience says I’m to blame.

What I do know and don’t know wrestles in my mind as I make the hour-long drive to her hometown. Layla, like me, was an outsider, and yet, it never really felt that way once we’d found one another.

I never went to her house, although she invited us once. Her parents had asked me to join them for Thanksgiving, but I declined. I was on better terms with my own mother back then. She still brought out my insecurities in a way I couldn’t explain, but she didn’t really start making me feel like a failure until after I’d dropped out of school. I’ll always regret not accepting Layla’s offer to join her; it would have been nice to have an extra holiday memory with her.

Even though I never made it to her house, her address wasn’t hard to find. A simple search online revealed the residence of Charles and Lena Williams, the same place they’ve lived for almost four decades.

I wonder if driving out here is a mistake, but if Crystal is right, and Layla’s parents are the ones who have been sending me threatening messages for the past ten years, it’s not really a conversation we can have over the phone. Not that I’m even banking on a conversation. As with all my other investigative techniques thus far, I’m hoping that after talking to them, I’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.

I park alongside the curb across from their house. It’s a two-story brick, a white picket fence circling the entire property. Like my mom’s place, there’s a large tree in the backyard, andthe image of seeing a black heart carved into the bark flashes through my brain.

I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. My mind needs to stay clear if I’m going to find the courage to knock on that front door, to talk with the couple that once threatened to sue me.

I’m about to open the driver’s side door, when there’s a noise from Layla’s house across the street. The front door opens, and a small child comes running out. It’s a little boy, maybe three or four years old. He runs full-force to the backyard tree, and jumps onto a swing. I hadn’t noticed it there before.

From the open doorway, comes another person. A woman in her early sixties. She’s holding a juice cup in one hand, a big smile across her face. Lena Williams. Layla’s mother.

For years, the only image I’ve had of her is the woman I saw in the wake of her daughter’s death. Swollen eyes, sunken cheeks. An aura about her that warned she’d never recover from this heartbreak. That was the woman I’d imagined sending the black hearts over the years. Likely, the woman Crystal had imagined, too.

This Lena Williams is different. She walks to the tree with confidence, gently putting the juice cup on the grass beside it. She bends down and whispers something to the child, then begins pushing him on the swing. I’m not sure who looks happier. The toddler flying through the air, or the proud grandmother behind him, her hands softly pushing at his back.

A moment later, Layla’s father, Charles Williams, exits the house. Like his wife, he walks with confidence and grace. He smiles the smile of a person who is at peace. When he takes a seat in the Adirondack chair across from the tree, he leans back, letting the sunlight fall on his face.

Whatever ball of anxiety and shame that’s been lodged inside my chest loosens, feels like an iced-over heart that’s melting.I never thought I’d see this. Layla’s parents, happy again. More than ten years since their daughter has died, and they’ve somehow found peace. Imagining they are the ones behind everything that’s been happening—the black hearts, the copycat crimes—seems so unlikely.

I pull out my phone, checking my messages for any updates. I had to cancel a shift last-minute in order to drive out here, and I can see Nikki has sent out a message to the group chat, reminding all the servers about the proper protocols for giving up a shift. I roll my eyes. I can’t expect her to understand why I needed to take off, let alone the satisfaction I now feel after seeing Layla’s parents in the flesh.

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