Page 70 of The Writer

“Yes.”

“This is our dilemma. We now have two bodies on our hands, the causes of death closely mirroring two different stories written by you.”

“I know how it looks,” I say. “But I didn’t do it.”

“Someone who has read your stories did?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” I breathe through my nose, trying to remain calm. “I have no idea why they’re framing me.”

“Except, with this second story, it doesn’t just relate to one murder.” Chaz reaches into his pocket again, retrieving anotherZiploc bag. “It’s very similar to another death from ten years ago.”

I glance down, only for a second, seeing the same Layla article that was left for me at Banyon’s Bridge.

“This newspaper clipping was with the story,” Wooley adds.

They know about Layla. They know that I wrote the story about an actual murder, and that a copycat killing took place soon after. Between those details and the video surveillance of me at Banyon’s Bridge, their insinuations are clear.

“You’re a crime writer, right?” Wooley says, that heavy dose of skepticism returning. “If you were us, what would you think?”

“That I’m so lost in grief over my roommate’s death from ten years ago, I snapped and started killing people?” I shake my head at the suggestion.

“Sounds like a far-fetched storyline if you ask me,” Wooley says.

“It also looks like you have trouble keeping roommates,” Chaz adds, flitting his eyes to the front door where Crystal just left.

“I don’t know what to say.” It’s the truth. I can’t deny how suspicious everything looks, and I can’t find the words to convince them that I’m not involved. “I didn’t do this.”

“Three murders. All with a connection to you,” Wooley says.

“Layla’s murderer is behind bars. Michael Massey.” His name leaves a bad taste in my mouth, my body shuddering at the memory of him. “You can’t accuse me of killing her.”

“You were with her the night she died,” Chaz says. “I’d still call that a pretty strong connection.”

“My friend died, and I wrote a story about her death to cope. I had absolutely nothing to do with Jessica’s murder. And I already told you, I wrote the story about Banyon’s Bridge to try and catch the killer. I’m not looking for inspiration to kill.”

“Right. It’s someone else from your group,” Chaz says.

“Why don’t you look into it?” I say. “I know you already spoke with them, but you’re talking to me like I’m your only suspect. I wrote those stories, but the other women had access to them, and it wouldn’t be hard for one of them to frame me.”

“We’re looking into all of them,” Wooley says. “It’s not our fault more evidence pointing to you ends up at our station.”

“And why do you think that is?” I ask. “Because someone wants you to think it’s me!”

“If it makes you feel better,” Chaz says, “you’re not the only member of your group connected to a murder.”

“What?”

Wooley pulls a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and flips open the cover. “Marley Theroux. She’s in the group, right?”

“Yes,” I say, holding my breath.

“Her brother was murdered over a year ago.”

“What?” I move closer to the table, desperate to read through his notebook and learn all the details.

“Yep. Brandon. He was bludgeoned to death leaving a bar.”

As though in slow motion, I sit back, the pieces falling into place before me. That’s the first murder Marley investigated. The one she believes put this chain of murders into motion.

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