Page 75 of The Writer

“I’m following April,” I say. “She’s not going home. We just passed her street.”

“I’m still on foot,” Marley says. “Victoria and Danielle are together. It makes me suspicious.”

“They live close to one another,” I say. “They probably do this after every meeting.”

“They haven’t noticed I’ve followed them,” she says, confidently. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when they split off.”

“Just keep watching,” I say, turning on my car blinker. Up ahead, April has taken a left at the light. She’s heading down Washington Street. In my head, I try to piece together where she might be going. All I know is that’s the part of town where the police station is located.

“What are we supposed to be looking for anyway?”

Marley sounds frustrated. At least my chase is taking place in the heated comfort of my car. She’s stuck on the streets, no idea where she’s headed, or what she’s looking for. The fact she’s tailing two people will make her task harder. If one of them is the killer, they aren’t going to do anything suspicious until they are alone.

I’m convinced whoever’s responsible for this crime spree will act. We’ve exposed their pattern to the entire group now. Not to mention, the police have now cornered all of us. At the very least, there must be some evidence they have to hide, some action that must be taken, and we’re hoping either Marley or I will catch them doing it.

“They’ve stopped walking,” Marley says. I can hear the sharp intake of breath, can almost imagine her trying to duck behind an old building or lamppost to hide.

“What’s happening?” I ask. My eyes are glued to April’s bumper, which is still moving slowly down Washington Street. There’s only one car between us, and I hope it’s enough to keep me concealed.

“Still just talking. Now they’re…” She pauses. I can hear her raspy breaths. “They’re hugging. Danielle is going inside a building.”

“What kind of building?”

“I can’t see. Not until Victoria starts walking again. She’s just standing there.”

April’s car comes to a stop outside a large apartment block. It looks familiar and forgettable, the way most complexes do. I’m not sure whether I’ve ever seen it before. I park against the curb on the other side of the street, watching as April exits her vehicle.

“Okay, Victoria is walking again,” Marley says.

“April has stopped,” I say, watching her like a lioness watches its prey. “She’s at an apartment block off Washington Street. She’s out of her car, but she’s not gone inside.”

Instead, she leans against the car. April’s head is raised, staring at the drab building. Even from where I sit, I can pick up on her sad expression. There’s an emptiness in her eyes, a look of despair. Is her guilt finally catching up to her? Does she realize it’s only a matter of time before the twisted game she’s constructed comes crashing down?

“Looks like Danielle went inside her offices,” Marley says, apparently reading the inscription on the front of the building. “Gates and Hamblin Associates.”

“I forgot her office was on that street,” I say. “What’s Victoria doing?”

“Still walking towards her apartment.” Her words run together, tense with indecision. “What should I do? Wait on Danielle or follow Victoria?”

“Follow Victoria,” I say. “At least see if she heads home. Danielle can’t do too much at work.”

Truthfully, I’m too preoccupied to think about either one of them. I’m watching April, trying to figure out why she’s here and what she’s doing.

The double glass doors to the apartment building open. A man walks out. He’s wearing a dark trench coat, hands in his pockets. He stands directly in front of April, and the two of them begin to talk.

It dawns on me that even if one of these women is behind the killings, they may be enlisting the help of someone else. It’s a lot for one person to carry out on their own. Could April have asked this man to help her? Plant evidence at times when she was elsewhere to better establish an alibi?

The questions shoot off in my brain like a firing squad, and then the double doors open again. This time, two small children come running out, one toddling as though he just learned how to walk. They rush past the man in the trench coat and into April’s arms.

Her children. I’m not familiar enough with either of them to know their faces, but April’s expression confirms it. The worry and apprehension on her face disappears, replaced with joy. She bends down, kissing each child on the top of the head.

It must be her night with the kids. April told me she’d been separated from her husband for some time. This must be where he’s staying, which explains the worried look on her face. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a mother and have your children out of your sight, to move them from a swanky house in the suburbs to a dingy apartment downtown.

The kids turn and hug the man in the coat. Chase, their father. April opens the door to the backseat, and they jump inside.

“Are you still there?” Marley’s voice sounds irritated.

“Yeah,” I say, putting the car in drive. “It’s not April.”

---