Page 71 of The Writer

“I do know something about that,” I say.

Chaz looks at me, surprised.

“You two might think I’m crazy, but Marley believes the connection between the group’s stories and murders happened long before any of the crimes you’re talking about. She believes it started with his death.”

Chaz pulls out the chair across from me and sits, pulling out his own notepad and pen. “Explain.”

I start over, telling them the entire story from the beginning. The real beginning, according to Marley. I’m not the only person who believes this far-fetched theory. Marley does, too. It’s thereason she joined the Mystery Maidens in the first place. Two other murders that linked back to the group before anyone started messing with me.

The detectives remain quiet as I talk, writing down increasingly confusing and far-fetched information. It’s clear they’re not making sense of things any better than I have these past couple of weeks. All I know is that these murders are no longer only connected to me.

They’re personal for Marley, too.

THIRTY-FIVE

The curb beside Marley’s apartment is near deserted. It dawns on me Thanksgiving is right around the corner; most students must be getting a head start on the holiday. Mom hasn’t mentioned me joining her in New England again. I wonder if she isn’t relieved I turned down her invitation. Nothing more stifling than a not-so-happy family gathering around a stuffed dinner table.

I exit the car, leaving behind worries about my family and the approaching holidays. I’m here to confront Marley. All along, I sensed there was something she was withholding, and I finally know what that is. She’s not some true-crime junkie who stumbled upon a strange string of murders. Her brother was the first victim, which makes her just as invested in this as I am, maybe even more so. There’s an accompanying sense of relief, too. Maybe all this bloodshed and loss isn’t targeted at me alone. Layla’s death and the black hearts play a substantial role, but whoever is doing this must have other motives.

Marley’s balcony is empty. I suppose I have the chilly November weather to thank for that. I buzz her number at the apartment’s entrance, hoping Marley hasn’t packed up and left town like the rest of her classmates.

After several seconds, a voice rises from the intercom: “Yeah?” I recognize it instantly.

“Marley, it’s Becca,” I say. “We need to talk.”

A beat passes, and I wonder if she’s going to ring me in or ignore me entirely. The intercom remains silent, but a few seconds later, there’s the blaring buzzer of the front door unlocking.

I climb the steps to Marley’s third-floor flat. The building has clearly been renovated, oily iron edging the exposed brickwork in the stairwell. There aren’t many units in the complex, fewer neighbors than even I have. As I rap against the front door, I wonder, does Marley have roommates? Does she live alone? There’s so little I know about her, and the few details I do have could all potentially be lies.

The door swings open. Marley stands in the doorway, her hair in a disheveled bun atop her head. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, dulling her otherwise youthful skin. For the first time since I’ve met her, Marley isn’t lighting up the room. Was she ever that effervescent, or was I only wanting her to be?

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice as dull and dry as the rest of her.

“We need to talk about Brandon,” I say.

It’s important to use his name, I think. We’re no longer dealing with fiction. No longer dealing with people far removed from our real lives, on the other side of a computer screen or in a newspaper article. Brandon was her brother, and Marley believes he was murdered by the same person who threatened me and committed the copycat killings. I want to know why.

She turns, leaving the door open, a silent invitation to enter. Inside, her apartment is as chic as I might have suspected. Gilded framed portraits of musicians litter the living-room walls. Beneath her television is a vintage record player, a massive collection of discs displayed under it. Her furniture isminimalist, all clear glass and sharp edges. The only thing that seems out of place in this perfectly curated apartment is the melancholy resident.

“When did you talk to the police?” she asks, sitting in one of the narrow chairs in the living room.

“Last night,” I say. “Whoever is behind this sent them more evidence tying me to the murders.”

“And are the police buying it?”

I shrug my shoulders, wandering over to another chair in the room. I sit, struggling to make myself comfortable. “Hard to say. They can’t deny the information that’s in front of them, but I do think they’re starting to question why everything’s been given to them. All that’s missing is a tidy freaking bow.” My smile fades quickly. “Anyway, they now have a copy ofThe Mistake. They know about Layla’s death. When they dug into the group, they found out about your brother.”

Marley stares out the window overlooking her balcony, the same place where I found her that night after the bridge. She looks at the street below with longing, never once acknowledging anything I’ve said. Finally, she speaks.

“My brother was my hero,” she says. “A cliché, I know. Sounds like the type of thing a person would only say after their brother was brutally murdered. For me, it was true, from the time we were kids. Whatever Brandon did, I was only a few steps behind him, trying to copy his every move.

“He was smart. Like, freakishly so. He understood how to write code at a young age. Won loads of awards at school. I was known around our community as Brandon’s little sister, but that never made me bitter. I was proud to be his sister. Proud just to grow up in the same world as him. Everyone who knew him felt that way, convinced he would do really great things one day.”

“He lit up the room,” I say, the words escaping before I have the chance to stop myself.

She laughs painfully. “He really did. Why is it always the best people that get taken too soon?”

The way she describes her brother, I can picture him. His smile, his impact on Marley. In many ways, he sounds like Layla. Their interests were different, their personalities unique. It’s the effect they had on those around them. A special type of magic.

---