Page 7 of The Writer

When he saw her, he knew immediately she was the one. Something about the way she carried herself, careful politeness, afraid of making the wrong move, saying the wrong thing. She was a pleaser, willing to go along with anything and anyone to avoid being alone. The fact she had arrived without friends, was desperate to cling on to something familiar, helped too.

They found one another by the beer keg, and he offered to pour her a drink. She was hesitant at first, her eyes falling to her dress, the floor. But the more she drank, the more she opened up. Told him about herself. Her friends, her major. All meaningless details that did nothing more than build a rapport between them, made her trust him. Not that he needed her trust.

The pill he slipped into her second cup of beer would do the trick. Always had before.

His heart pumped faster as he guided her upstairs. He’d scoped out a room earlier, the busy partygoers barely acknowledging him as he wandered around the house. When the door closed behind them, he switched off the lights and felt like he’d entered another world entirely, one where he was in control of everything that happened next.

This was the thrill he was after. Always.

The girl fell onto the bed, her body limp, her eyes closed. He reached out to touch her?—

The door burst open, bright lights filling the space. A trio of women entered the room, and it only took a few seconds forthem to piece together what they’d almost interrupted. If only he’d remembered to lock the door.

Such a simple, costly mistake.

In a matter of minutes, more people appeared outside the room. Some were checking on the girl, others were attempting to confront him. He ran down the stairs, away from the party and the angry crowd that gathered around him.

Somehow, he got away, disappeared, never to be seen again.

Until another night, much like the first, when he went hunting at a bar. A beautiful girl walked in, and this time, her name was impossible to ignore. It rang off the tongues of her friends like a melody, a secret song reaching out to him.

Layla. Her name was Layla.

FIVE

My heart pounds as I stumble to my closet, searching for my apron.

I’d forgotten I’d picked up a day shift. Now that the Mystery Maidens want to meet two evenings a week, I need the extra cash, even if afternoons bring in less money. However, because of my late-night writing session, I slept through my three alarms, and run the risk of being late.

After I woke up from the nightmare, the intense aftershocks I felt from the terror stayed with me, allowed me an outlet to write. I sat in front of my computer until sunrise, feverishly typing outThe Mistake—that’s the tentative title, at least. The story begins with a woman narrowly escaping an attack but ends some place much darker; I’m still not sure how far I’m willing to take it. Whether it’s a single story or the beginning of a larger project, I don’t know. All that is clear is that for the first time in a month I sat behind my keyboard and words flowed freely. That fact alone is worth this morning’s rush.

And yet, the dark content swirling inside my head disturbs me. I’ve written about murder and betrayal before, but never from the perspective of the killer. The ease with which the words filled the page is unsettling, even though part of me is thrilledto have moved past my writer’s block. Perhaps the return of the black hearts has triggered something, unlocked a part of me I didn’t know existed.

I hurriedly brush my teeth, minty foam dripping down my chin like a rabid dog. There’s little time to do more than slick my hair into a ponytail. Although Mario, the owner of the restaurant, likes me, I can’t push my luck by being late again. This is the most stable job I’ve had in a while, and I need to keep it.

This time last year, I was working at the MedSpa. The hours were good, and because business was booming, I received more than the standard hourly wage. It’s one of the few seasons in the past ten years where things seemed headed in the right direction.

Any time I feel that way, a black heart is due to make an appearance.

My only responsibility at the spa was checking clients in for their appointments and finalizing their payments before they left. There was a tip jar for the massage therapists and estheticians where customers could leave cash, if they hadn’t already added a gratuity on a card.

I’d been there for several months and was enjoying myself. One of the massage therapists had even piqued my interest about getting my own therapy license. I’d been researching classes, thought maybe I’d found a job outside of writing that could make me happy for the time being.

It had been a busy week, customers coming in around the clock for different services. It was near closing, and I stepped around the corner to use the bathroom. When I returned to the front desk, the tip jar was empty.

My first reaction was that one of the therapists had already come through to collect the cash, but they were all busy. I even questioned whether I’d already collected it and counted it for the day, since we were so close to the end of shift. I looked inside the jar, a small piece of paper resting at the bottom.

Written on the paper was a single word—Fraud. On the back, was that same black heart I’d seen over and over again.

I tried explaining to my boss what happened, but she couldn’t understand how someone could simply take the money without me seeing, and there were no cameras to prove my side of the story. She believed I’d stolen the money, as she’d had trouble with workers in the past.

I almost told her about the black hearts, that someone had intentionally done this because they wanted me to be in trouble. Then I thought of the message left behind—Fraud. Showing them the note would only make me appear more guilty. In the past, I’d had problems with people believing me about the hearts; I couldn’t take her judgement and pity on top of losing my job.

My phone buzzes, interrupting my memories. My stomach clenches, as I’m afraid it’s Mario calling to see where I am. I’m even more upset when I see the true caller: my mother.

Normally, I’d ignore her, especially when I’m running late, but it’s been more than a week since we talked, and I’m always afraid when she calls me out of the blue it’s because she has some bad news to share. My grandmother has died or something equally awful.

“Good, I caught you,” Mom says when I answer. The sound of birds squawking travels through the phone lines, and I can picture her now, sitting on the back patio of my childhood home,a cup of coffee with an extra splash of Baileys beside her, as she takes in the rural mountain scenery. “I’ve been so busy lately?—”

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