Page 77 of The Writer

I step out of the car, my stomach dropping when I realize where I am. I’d been so determined to get here, seeing the address didn’t strike a chord. It’s changed since the last time I was here. My old apartment building torn down, an unfinished structure in its place.

“The construction site on Magnolia Avenue,” I say. My eyes scan the brickwork, looking for the correct address, while my mind recalls old memories. Layla and Crystal and I on moving day, unloading our cheap belongings. Waltzing down the sidewalk to the restaurants and bars nearby. This is where we lived together, the last place Layla ever lived.

“Who is being attacked?” the operator asks. “Calm down and give me some details.”

I’m out of breath, struggling to handle a conversation and open the front door to the building. The door is unlocked, but it’s so heavy, it takes all my strength to pull it open.

“The victim’s name is Marley Theroux,” I answer, once inside. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“What is your name?”

I’m inside. The entranceway is empty and made of stone, reminding me of being inside a cave. To my left, I see a series of boxes inscribed with names and numbers. This is a storagefacility, with countless units on the inside. Even if Marley and Victoria are here, it could take hours to find them.

“Ma’am, what is your name?” the operator repeats, her voice increasingly agitated.

“It’s a storage facility,” I say. “Send help.”

“You need to stay on the line?—”

I end the call before she can finish her instructions. There’s no more information I can provide at this point, and I must use every minute between now and when the police get here to find Marley.

I pull up my location app, the blue circle showing Marley is in this exact location. She’s here, but where? Luring her here was intentional. Another way to send me a message.

“Marley?” I call out, my voice echoing. It’s a long strand of locked metallic units. It’s like I’m underground, hunting through catacombs, and I’m not sure which one might be Marley’s tomb. “Victoria?”

Marley was right, and Victoria is the one who was behind this. I suppose it makes sense, seeing as Victoria was always the biggest literary critic of the group. She’s spent so many years reading and writing crime stories, life began imitating art. But still, why? Has she completely lost her mind? Did working alongside Layla’s parents send her over the edge?

My footsteps thud against the concrete floors as I run the length of the storage containers. Each one is closed and locked; Marley could be right on the other side of a metal awning, and I’d never know. At the end of the hallway, another row continues on. I turn the corner, and that’s when I see her.

Marley is sprawled out on the concrete, blood trailing from behind her ear.

“Marley!” I bend to her, placing my hand on her neck. There’s a faint pulse?—

“Don’t move.”

The voice is behind me, the echoing sounds of the order freezing me in place. I pull back my hands, Marley’s blood staining my fingers. I raise them slowly, showing I’m unarmed.

“Victoria?” I call out.

“Nope,” the voice says, smug and indignant.

Slowly, I stand and turn around.

Danielle is standing in front of me, holding a hammer at her side. The bright fluorescent lights illuminate her and the weapon completely. There are dark red stains on the metal.

“You’re behind this?” I say.

“You’d figured out it was one of us,” she says. “Why so surprised it’s me?”

I could never figure out why any of them did this. For the past ten minutes, I was convinced it was Victoria. That’s who Marley had been following when I heard that terrifying scream.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” Danielle says, gesturing the hammer toward Marley. “She isn’t either.”

“It’s been you this entire time?” I ask, my voice pleading.

“I thought you would have figured it out by now,” she says. “I’ve left you enough clues.”

“The black hearts.” All the images flash through my mind, but still nothing makes sense. “Why are you doing any of this?”

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