Page 69 of The Writer

I realize, all too late, that I let Marley get into my head. Sure, Crystal’s motive might be more personal than the rest, but I also know her better than all the other Maidens. There are elements of their lives that remain unclear. I’ve had a front row seat to Crystal’s life for the past decade, for better or worse. Did I really think she’d be this vindictive? Did I really think she was capable of stalking and murder?

Now that I’ve thrown these accusations out there, even if I didn’t tell her about the worst parts, our relationship will never be the same.

“I still want you here, Crystal,” I say.

“Well, I don’t want to be here.” She stands at the front door. “And if you haven’t completely lost your mind, and what you’re saying is true, it sounds like it’s no longer safe here.”

She swings open the front door but takes a step back when she sees two men standing in the hallway. I move closer, seeing Detectives Chaz and Wooley are right outside my door.

“Who the hell are you?” Crystal asks, hateful.

Wooley raises a badge. “We’re here to see Becca.”

As though our argument wasn’t bad enough, the presence of police at my apartment unsettles her even more. She looks back at me, an expression of disbelief on her face.

“I’ll let you know when I’ll be back to get my things,” she says.

The officers step aside, and she walks down the hallway and out of my life.

THIRTY-FOUR

“Did we come at a bad time?” Chaz says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Does it matter?”

I turn on my heels, retreating to the dining-room table. I plop into the hard-wooden chair, waiting for the detectives to follow.

“Is she one of the writers in your group?” Wooley asks, nodding in the direction of where Crystal once stood.

“She’s my roommate.” I stare at the crumbs on the table’s surface, half-whispering to myself, “At least, she was.”

“You’re having a rough couple of weeks,” Chaz says.

“Tell me about it.” I sigh, raising my head to meet the detectives’ stare. “I know you’re not here to check on my wellbeing. So, why are you here?”

“We have a couple of updates we want to run by you,” Wooley says, sitting, without invitation, in the seat beside me. “Remind us, what was the first murder you believe had a connection to your little group?”

The heavy amount of skepticism behind the wordsmurderandlittlemake me cringe. I slide my hands beneath my crossed legs, trying to keep my temper contained.

“The woman who was killed two weeks ago,” I say. “Jessica Wilder.”

“She was found by campus, not far off from The Cantina, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “And before you ask, I’ve never been.”

Wooley laughs. “Don’t worry. We didn’t catch you on surveillance this time. We did, however, receive another one of your stories.”

Behind him, Chaz reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Ziploc bag with papers inside. They place it in front of me, but I don’t need to look to know what the pages are.The Mistake. When I do sneak a look, I see a black heart plastered to the front of the manuscript.

“Did you write this?” he asks.

“Where did you get it?” I ask.

“Someone left it at the station. An anonymous tip relating to Jessica Wilder’s murder.”

I close my eyes, too weak to remain stoic in front of them. I can feel their gaze on me, judging, searching.

“Answer the question, please,” Wooley says. “Did you write it?”

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