Page 73 of The Writer

“I don’t know,” she says. “I think the only way to really answer that question is to go to the group and ask.”

THIRTY-SIX

When I arrive at McCallie’s Pub, it feels as though I’m approaching a firing squad, not a group of friends. Everyone is there. They’ve staked out our familiar booth in back, each person sitting around the table to form a letter C. I stand at the table, cringing at the awkward hush that falls over the group.

“We should talk,” Victoria says, stating the obvious.

“I know,” I tell them. “Let me explain?—”

“Did you actually tell the police you think one of us is a murderer?” Danielle cuts in.

“And that you think we’re using the stories from group as inspiration?” April adds.

“It sounds ridiculous,” I say. “I know?—”

“You realize I could be placed on formal reprimand for getting involved in a criminal case,” Danielle says.

“Likewise, the university could be at fault for being affiliated with our group,” Victoria says. “The whole reason I started Mystery Maidens was to connect emerging writers.”

“And my kids,” April says. She doesn’t expand further, but I know what she’s implying. In a custody battle with her soon-to-be ex, the last thing she needs is to be accused of committing a crime. The others don’t know about April’s personal life, but I dobecause she trusts me. They all trust me, in some capacity, and I’ve broken that trust.

The entire time the group members lay into me, Marley sits in silence. Whenever she opens her mouth to speak, another person cuts in. All she can do is stare back at me with pitiful, worried, eyes.

“Let’s give her a chance to talk,” she says at last.

I go to sit in the booth, but none of the group budges. I grab a nearby chair and put it at the end of the table.

“I can only imagine how upset you all are,” I begin. “But someone is targeting me, and as upsetting as it is to say, all signs point to it being someone in this group.”

“Targeting you how?” Danielle asks. “And why?”

“Well, first my tires were slashed. Just like in April’s story. Then a person was hit by a car right outside my apartment, like in Victoria’s story.” As I speak, everyone listens along, unconvinced. “After I sharedThe Mistakewith the group, Jessica Wilder was murdered in the exact same way.”

“Right now, it sounds like you’re rattling off a bunch of conspiracy theories,” Victoria says. “None of that is directly linked to you.”

“You’re right,” I say. “At first it wasn’t. And I knew how crazy the whole thing sounded, so I wanted to test my own theory and see what might happen. That’s why I wroteMurder at the Bridgeand shared it. And guess what happened? A man died that same night, and the police found a copy of my short story in his pocket.”

Despite the women’s simmering anger, everyone seems to sit up a little straighter. They might feel betrayed, but no one can insist it’s only a coincidence when my story was found at a crime scene.

“When the police talked to me, they were acting as though you were a suspect,” Danielle says, her gaze analytical, even a tad suspicious, “not a victim.”

I exhale. “The police have video of me on the bridge. Between that and my story being found in the victim’s pocket, I think they’re working off the theory I’ve snapped.”

“Maybe you have,” April says. “I mean, you were quick to tell the police you thought we were involved. Maybe it has been you this whole time.”

“It’s not like I wanted to go to the police, but come on! We read and write this stuff for a living. How many times have you been reading a book, and you scream at the protagonist to go to the cops? That’s what I did, and they didn’t take me seriously, until another body turned up.”

“It’s suspicious that there are now two deaths linked to our group,” Victoria says, still homing in on this point. She cuts her eyes at me. “And they’re both stories you wrote.”

“Which brings me back to my original question,” Danielle says, recapturing my attention. “Why you?”

I take a deep breath, my gaze fixed on the table. “After Jessica Wilder was killed, the newspaper ran that article about a similar attack that happened ten years ago. Remember? We talked about it during group.” I force myself to look up, to meet each of their eyes and really look. “The victim’s name was Layla Williams. What I didn’t tell you… is that she was my college roommate.”

“Layla,” Victoria repeats slowly. “That’s the name of the woman who dies inThe Mistake.”

“Yes.” My voice is shaking, but I force myself to hold it together, to continue this conversation, wherever it may take us.

“You were living with her at the time she was murdered?” Danielle asks, tilting her head slightly.

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