Page 64 of The Writer

If for no other reason than I hope she’ll leave me alone, I call her.

“It’s about time,” she says when she answers. “You stalk me outside of my apartment and then go totally MIA.”

“I needed some space,” I say. “I talked to the police on Saturday, and it wasn’t a great conversation.”

“Yeah. Well, join the club.”

I sit up straighter in bed. “What do you mean?”

“The police have talked to all of us.”

“Us?”

“Yes. The other Maidens, too. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from them.”

Marley isn’t the only person I’ve ignored. All my calls have gone to voicemail and messages ignored as I’ve spent the day trying to decide my next move.

“What did the police talk to them about?” I ask.

“I’m guessing they’ll tell you all about it at tonight’s meeting.”

“I’m not going.” I fall back onto the pillows, staring up at the yellowed ceiling. “I can’t, Marley. Especially now.”

“You have to, Becca. Not only is everyone pissed, but this could be our chance to figure out which member of the group is behind this.”

“I don’t care anymore,” I shout into the phone. I take a deep breath, collecting myself. “The police were talking to me likeIwas a suspect. A man was murdered at the bridge because of me.”

“Don’t you want to find out who did it?”

That poor man’s face appears in my mind again, my stomach clenching. There’s so much I don’t know about what’s happening, but I know this: two strangers have died because of me. No, rather, to get to me.

“I do.”

“Then man up and come to the meeting. I’ll be there with you this time. I promise,” she says. “I think you’re going to need the backup.”

I’m not surprised I’m the last to arrive, but I wince at the idea they’ve had plenty of time to discuss the situation without me. Everyone is so deep in conversation, they barely acknowledge me when I join their table.

“So, what do you think the police are getting at? They’ve talked to all of us,” Victoria says, turning to me. “Have you talked to them, too?”

I nod, refusing to make eye contact with any of them.

“Clearly they think there’s some connection between our stories and the crimes,” Danielle says.

“That’s ridiculous,” April adds. “I mean, we’re a bunch of writers. Not criminal masterminds.”

“I think they’re just exploring all avenues,” Marley says.

“But who brought their attention to us in the first place?” April asks.

It’s then I realize that the others don’t know I’m the one who first went to the police about the copycat crimes. Of course, that was before events took a deadly turn with Jessica Wilder’s murder. The police still haven’t made a connection between that crime and the death of my former roommate. They’ve only questioned the other group members about our stories, so I try to act as shocked as the rest of the women about what’s unfolding. Across the table, Marley stares directly at me, silently warning me not to say too much.

“They must have gotten their hands on our writing,” I say. “That’s the only thing that explains it.”

“But how?” April asks. “We’re a small group. Some of our stories have been published, but those aren’t even the ones they were asking about.”

“How would anyone outside of this group have access?” Danielle asks.

“We think we might know,” Marley chimes in. “The shared drive.”

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