Page 62 of The Writer

“So, it’s like a contest?” Wooley asks.

“More like a challenge,” I say, fearing we’re moving off topic. “Anyway, we’ve already met twice this week.”

“Have you noticed any connections between stories shared at the meetings and any recent crimes?”

“No,” I answer, honestly. I was so flustered by Marley’s absence I hardly paid attention though. “I’m starting to think maybe whoever is behind this knows I’m onto them.”

“What makes you think that?” Chaz asks. “Have you received any more of those strange messages? The black hearts?”

“Not exactly.”

Now should be when I tell them about the similarities between Jessica Wilder’s death and the story I wrote, but I don’t want to implicate myself. Before I can add anything else, Detective Wooley says, “Do you spend a lot of time at Banyon’s Bridge?”

My insides still, my mind going back to that cold November night I staked out that precise location, waiting for a murder to happen.

“I was there earlier this week, actually.”

“Huh,” Wooley says, but he doesn’t sound very surprised. “For any particular reason?”

“I wrote a story as a way to try and catch the killer in the act.” I look down, fully aware of how ridiculous it sounds. “It was about a man being pushed off a bridge.”

“Why would you do that?” Chaz asks, more animated than his partner.

“I’d already come to you with my theory, and you didn’t take it seriously,” I say. “I figured the only way I could convince you was to prove it.”

“So, you wrote a story to trigger one of your group members?”

“I thought they might try to re-enact the story,” I say, “and I’d be able to catch them.”

“Nearby security cameras show you were at the bridge on Monday night.”

Cameras? Why would they be looking at cameras? Why would they be looking for me?

“That’s right,” I say. “I went there hoping to catch one of the other group members, but no one showed.”

“Are you aware that someone did die on the bridge that night?”

It’s as though all the liquid inside my body has turned cold, hardening, until my entire body is heavy with dread. “What?”

He pulls out a picture. “Do you recognize this man?”

I do, instantly. It’s the homeless man I saw rummaging through the trash that night. I got a good look at his face right before I found the article on the lamppost.

“Yes, he was there.”

“His name is Darryl Nease,” the detective says. “Can you tell us anything else about him?”

“Not really. He was still there when I left.”

“Around what time was that?” Chaz asks.

“Midnight.”

“That lines up with the video footage we reviewed,” Wooley says. “Problem is, this man was pushed to his death close to two a.m.”

I shove the picture away, no longer able to stomach looking at a man who, the last time I saw him, was completely fine. “Did you see someone on camera?”

“No, there aren’t any cameras on the bridge itself. He’d washed up on the bank of the river. You haven’t seen it in the papers because we were waiting to track down a next of kin, which can be hard with the homeless.”

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