Page 79 of The Writer

“I know. I remember putting it in the tip jar,” she says. “Just like I broke up your relationship before that. You should be thanking me for that one. Jasper was a lousy lay.”

I clench my jaw, trying not to react. For years, the black hearts have been shrouded in mystery. Now I imagine Danielle’s face at each scene, in every scenario.

“So, you decided to be my friend instead?” I ask.

“I’d spent years trying to ruin your life. Not just with the hearts. Before that, I’d followed all the details of Layla’s case, remained in contact with her family. I was one of the people who urged her parents to file that suit against you and Crystal. Sure, it didn’t go anywhere, but maybe it will make people think twice before leaving their drunk friend alone in a bar with a man she barely knows.

“But ruining your life hadn’t done much for me, had it? I was still so angry inside. I was stillhurtingpeople. When you sat in my office that day, I thought it was time I take a different approach. I decided to forgive you.”

“Forgive me?”

“Nine years had passed at that point. I knew I had changed, for better and worse. I thought maybe you had, too. And it’s not like the black hearts hadn’t done enough damage over the years. Your life was rather pathetic. I chose to tell you about the writing group, tried to get to know you on a different level. I never even let you know how much you had taken away from me. As it got closer to the anniversary of her death, I sent another black heart to your apartment, just to keep you on your toes. Still, I truly believed I’d moved on from what happened.

“And then you wrote that story.”

My heart thuds against my chest. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I never meant for anyone else to read it.”

“Then why did you share it? I’m telling you, reading that story made me feel like I was right back in that moment. There at that bar.”

The way she says this comes out strange, reminds me of what she said earlier, about seeing the man with Layla.

“You weren’t there that night,” I say. “How could you be right back in that moment? How could you see her sitting at the bar with him?”

Her face stills, the same way it did earlier when she was caught in a lie.

“Oh,” Danielle says. “I guess you don’t have the full story about that either.”

THIRTY-NINE

Danielle leans against the brick wall, her slumped shoulders speaking to exhaustion, but the weapon she grips tightly still serves as a threat. I watch her closely and listen.

“I was heartbroken when Layla decided to go to another school,” she says. “I always thought we’d stick together. Maybe even room together. I couldn’t understand why she’d ruin our plan and do her own thing.”

Her face changes, shedding years of maturity, and for a moment, she appears younger, the lines across her forehead and around her eyes gone. I can almost imagine that version of herself, before time and tragedy changed us both.

“We stayed in touch as best we could,” she continues. “We’d catch up over winter and summer breaks. Made plans to meet up on weekends. Of course, it was always easier for me to shift my schedule around. I never made the connections she did at college. Layla was my only true friend. I was always willing to make time for her.”

The last few sentences come out as an accusation, as though Crystal and I did something wrong by befriending Layla. We weren’t trying to take her away from anyone. In fact, I barely remember Layla talking about her relationships back home.There could have been the odd weekend she met up with an old friend and didn’t tell us. I recalled all the times she’d return from a visit and seem bothered. Maybe it wasn’t a complicated home life that was causing her problems, but an obsessive friendship. This fact raises my guard against everything Danielle is about to say. How much is the truth and how much is a carefully created narrative?

“I was going to visit her at WU,” Danielle says, recapturing my attention. “I knew Layla was busy with exams, and I told her I’d be happy to hang around until she finished. Then we could spend all our time together, just like the old days. She’d blown me off for several months in a row, and I was starting to think she was avoiding me. The real Layla would never do that, not to her oldest friend. She was just so distracted with her life at school. Every time I tried to make plans with her, there was always an excuse. She said we should wait until after the semester was over.

“What she didn’t know was that I’d already driven to Whitaker. The last thing I wanted to do was get back in my car and go home. I figured I’d surprise her. Once she saw I’d come all this way to visit her, she’d be happy to take a few hours away from her studies.”

Danielle looks down, rolling the hammer between her hands. It’s visibly painful for her to tell this story, and for a moment, I pity her. I’ve spent the last decade revisiting that awful night, trying to work out where I went wrong, what I could have said differently. When she lifts her head, there’s a hardness to her stare, her eyes almost completely black.

“I was on my way here. To this very apartment building,” she says. “I was going to surprise her. Imagine my shock when the three of you came out, dressed to the nines and ready for a night on the town. Layla was too busy to hang out with me but had all the energy in the world for hernewfriends.”

Like a movie replaying in my mind, I envision us. The smell of hairspray rising from Crystal’s stiff updo. The cold chill in the air. Layla’s flushed cheeks. I’m back in that moment, on our last night together, watching as three young women stumble down the sidewalk, our unified laughter echoing through the streets.

“I figured you two pressured her into going out,” Danielle says, halting my imagination, forcing me into her story. “Sure, she looked happy, but she was just trying to please. Like she always did. There’s no way she would have ditched me for the two of you, not when she got to see you every day.

“I followed you to that awful bar. I don’t know how Layla could stand it for a second. All those gross frat boys everywhere and the vulgar music. It wasn’t the type of place we would have ever gone. I decided I’d wait a little longer, surprise her there and we could leave together.”

I revisit the scene at the bar. The three of us huddled around the sticky countertop, fighting to get the bartender’s attention. Only now, I imagine Danielle lurking in the back, watching and dissecting our every move. I never knew she was there, and inserting her into the scene now makes my body shudder with fear.

“Except, the longer I waited, the more I realized Layla was having fun. She was enjoying herself,” Danielle says, her words filled with hatred. “Even after the two of you wandered away and left her withhim.”

“Wewerejust having fun,” I say, the words out of my mouth before I’ve thought them through.

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