Page 63 of The Writer

“How do you know he was pushed?”

“We don’t,” Wooley says. “He could have easily fallen or even jumped. But we did find something curious in his jacket pocket.”

He pulls out another photo. It seems to be all the items collected from the victim. Right next to his switchblade and bottle caps is a typed manuscript.

“You’re saying the man died with this on him?” I ask, my voice beginning to break.

“Yes,” Wooley says, looking down at the picture, reading the title of the manuscript. “At the top, it saysMurder at the Bridgeby Becca Walsh. Is that your story?”

“Yes.” I’m breathless.

Wooley nods, his eyes narrowing. “Any idea how it got into the hands of a dead man?”

THIRTY-TWO

On Monday morning, I wake up in my bed, too riddled with exhaustion to get up. As it has all weekend, my mind revisits the conversation with the police on repeat, trying to make sense of what they told me and what it means.

Darryl Nease was pushed from the bridge that night. The very same man I saw rummaging through the trash. When I picture him in my mind now, each detail comes through with complete clarity. His ragged clothes and frostbitten fingertips, the nervous but kind smile he displayed when I approached him.

I recall the anxiety and paranoia I felt when I saw another person on the bridge, how I’d leapt into action, not wanting an innocent person’s murder on my conscience.

It was all in vain.

Little did I know, when I was storming off to confront Marley, someone else was at the bridge, waiting. Or maybe they came back several hours later, and poor Darryl just happened to be making his way across again. Either way, he was murdered, and if it weren’t for my stupid story trying to lure the killer out of hiding, he’d still be alive. Another person dead on account of my stupid mistakes.

As if that tragedy wasn’t enough, now it appears the police view me as a suspect. Video surveillance captured me at the scene, and even though that same recording shows me leaving the bridge shortly after midnight, Wooley and Chaz implied I could have easily come back later, suggested maybe I was only surveying the area so I could pick the precise time and location for the crime.

Neither officer told me if another person was caught on camera. Even if they were, that doesn’t leave me much hope. Whoever is behind this has been one step ahead of me this entire time. The message and article were planted for me to find. An excerpt ofMurder at the Bridgewas placed in the victim’s coat pocket to further implicate me. I pointed out that if I were the killer I wouldn’t have left the story behind, but Chaz and Wooley never once dropped their guarded demeanor.

With a shudder, I imagine what the last few moments of Darryl Nease’s life must have been like. Cold. Confused. Was he hopeful that a kind stranger was sparing him a few extra bucks, not realizing that it was really a twisted criminal handing over my story? Who hates me so much that they would kill a defenseless man so cruelly?

As Marley said in our last meeting, this is getting too personal.

She has no idea.

I kill hours watching mindless videos on my phone, every now and then scanning the local news to see if any other mysterious crimes have occurred that mirror any of my stories. Nothing notable. I did receive another manuscript request yesterday, but it was for one of the forged Layla emails. What are the odds that the only story that’s brought me a small modicum of success was one never meant to be shared with others?

Knuckles rap against my bedroom door. “Becca, you in there?”

Crystal pokes her head into the room. As usual, her hair and makeup are perfectly styled and she’s wearing a stylish jumpsuit. She frowns when she sees me.

“You feeling okay?”

“I think I have the flu,” I lie, lacking the energy to tell her anything else.

“Poor thing. Steer clear from me.” She takes a step backward. “I just stopped by for lunch. I thought I saw your car parked outside. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Just need some rest.” I pick up my phone again and begin scrolling. “I’ll join the world eventually.”

“Also, there was a note for you in the mailbox. I left it on the counter,” she says. “I’m heading out.”

She closes the door behind her, afraid I’ll contaminate her with my imaginary germs. As soon as I hear the front lock click, I enter the kitchen, looking for the note. The paper is folded over and taped at the ends so no one else can read it. My heart flutters like a caged bird, afraid of seeing yet another black heart. When I unfold it, there’s a single handwritten message.

Why are you ignoring me? – M

Marley. Ever since my conversation with the police, I haven’t felt up to talking to anyone, even her. I understand why she ditched me at the last meeting now. This is all getting too much. I should have followed her lead and bowed out, but I didn’t, and now there’s even more death targeted at me.

Marley strikes me as the type of person who doesn’t like being ignored, regardless of the fact she ghosted me first. Still, why is she following me now? Because I rejected a few phone calls? There’s something about her I still don’t fully trust, not that I’m able to trust anything, including my own judgement.

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