Page 60 of The Writer

“When that article came out in yesterday’s paper, it worried me. I don’t like how close we’re getting to this.”

“What about your podcast?”

“Screw the podcast. This isn’t a fake story anymore. It’s not even a real story about people I don’t know. This is my town. My peers. I’ve been looking into these cases long before you came along.” She looks up, holding a stack of books close to her chest like they’re armor. “Truth is, I’m regretting getting involved. If we really think there’s a killer in our group, we should leave that to the police to sort out. Not us.”

“Easy to say when you’re not the one being targeted.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my recent emails. “Take a look at this.”

She holds the phone, raising a hand to block the glare from the sun. Her mouth moves rapidly as she reads. “What is this? An agent is interested in your manuscript. Congratulations.”

I snatch the phone away and slide it into my back pocket. “Except it’s not for a book I’ve written. Someone hacked into my email and sent out the Layla story to a dozen different literary agents.”

Marley still looks confused. “Why would they do that?”

“For the same reason they slashed my tires and ran over a stranger on my street. One of the women in the group is messing with me, and it’s up to us to figure out who it is.”

“This is far too personal,” she says. “I mean, someone got into your email. You should really go to the police.”

“I can’t!” I say. “Not yet. We’re close to figuring out which Maiden is behind this. I’m just asking for your help.”

Begrudgingly, Marley accompanies me over the street to The Coffee Shop. She sits across from me, placing her textbooks on the ground by our feet. It’s not like she has some investigative gift, but she’s the only person who even half-heartedly believes my theory that something bad is taking place with the group, and I need her reassurance to keep me from going crazy.

“How would someone have access to your email?” she asks. “I’m guessing you’ve already tried to pin it down.”

“I know I went to the bathroom at the last meeting,” I say. “I was frustrated you didn’t show, and the others could tell there was something wrong with me. Still, I couldn’t have been gone for more than five minutes. I don’t think that would have been enough time for someone to hack my computer without the others seeing.”

“Okay, then they must have accessed the story another way,” she says. “Could one of them have gotten into your apartment?”

I consider the question. Things have been in disarray lately, but I could easily chalk that up to having a roommate for the first time in a decade. On the other hand, someone could have been going through my things, and I’d never know because I’d assume it was Crystal moving around.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “It’s possible. Whoever is doing this is going to extreme lengths.”

“Think about your writing specifically. Is there any way someone can access your stories without using your computer?”

It’s like a buzzer going off in my head. “The shared drive.”

“What?”

“I almost forgot about it.” I pull my laptop closer and begin typing furiously. “The Mystery Maidens have a shared folder we use for completed stories. Sometimes we upload our work there so we can critique each other during the week.”

“Is the Layla story there?”

It only takes a few clicks for me to find it. “Yes. I upload everything to the drive as a backup, but all the Maidens have access.”

“So, if that’s the case, all they’d need is your email password and they’re good to go.”

“That’s still hard to figure out.”

“Is it?” She tilts her head to the side. “Most people have shit security.”

My confidence deflates when I realize she’s right. I certainly haven’t put much thought into my passwords. For almost all of them it’sPassword123. If someone was driven enough, and I suspect whoever is targeting me is, they could have hacked into my account with ease.

“Okay, so they guess my email password. They download the story from the group’s shared drive. Now they can use my account to contact as many agents as they want.”

“They could still have broken into your apartment.”

“Could have.” I stare at the computer screen, thinking. “This shared drive has been around longer than I’ve been in the group.” I can scroll back and see manuscripts from more than two years ago.

“Including the stories Victoria shared with her class?” she asks. I nod. “Then any of the group members can download whatever they want for inspiration. We can show all this to the police?—”

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