Page 81 of The Writer

“I thought I’d moved past this,” Danielle says. For a moment, I forgot she was still here. I was too far into the past. “I really did. There were the two guys last year, but those were flukes. I’d carried on with my life. I’d even forgiven you. Until you had the audacity to write that awful story about Layla.”

“You murdered her!” I remind her, my anger giving me the courage to speak. “Do you realize how delusional you sound? You’re claiming to be her friend, when this whole time you were the one who killed her.”

“No one can prove that,” she says, defiantly. “Just like the civil suit couldn’t prove you were at fault. But now? There are multiple dead bodies with ties to you and the stories you wrote. You’re finally going to reap what you sowed all those years ago.”

“You can’t?—”

Moaning sounds interrupt our exchange. On the concrete floor, Marley begins to stir.

“Where am I?” She’s raising herself onto her elbows, touching the back of her head. Blood stains her fingers and she gasps. “What happened to me?”

“You were attacked—” I explain, but before I can finish, Danielle cuts in.

“Becca knocked you over the head!” she shouts. “I saw the whole thing.”

“She’s lying,” I say. “You know that. I was on the phone with you.”

“She was following you,” Danielle says. “That’s why I came here. To help protect you.”

Marley winces. I wonder if she can even understand anything that’s been said. “I think I should go to the hospital.” She tries to stand but tumbles back to her knees.

“We have to get out of here,” I say, looking at Danielle. “Please let us leave.”

“I’m not letting her go anywhere with you,” she says. “You’re a murderer! You’re the one behind all this!”

“She’s lying.”

“I don’t care who’s lying,” Marley says, her words beginning to slur.

“Danielle is the person we’ve been chasing all this time. She killed Layla,” I say. Then more desperately, “She killed your brother!”

“You can’t believe her. She?—”

Danielle is interrupted by the screeching sound of the heavy door hitting the cement wall. Two officers raid the storage facility with their guns drawn.

“Hands up,” one of them shouts, while the other hunches forward.

I obey, as does Danielle, dropping the hammer on the ground. Marley is still sitting, her hand on the back of her head, dazed.

“It was all her,” Danielle cries, pointing at me. “I saw the whole thing. She attacked my friend and just admitted to killing two other people.”

“She’s lying!”

“Everyone on your stomachs,” the second officer says, ignoring us. “Place your hands on the back of your heads and remain still.”

Again, we obey. The officers move around us, placing handcuffs on our wrists. The metal feels heavy and cold, digging into my skin. On the ground, all Danielle and I can do is stare at each other, a silent face-off.

“Do you know who attacked you?” the first officer asks Marley.

She shakes her head. “I don’t remember anything.”

I can’t fault her for not having my side. She genuinely doesn’t know what happened, and I’m briefly happy she doesn’t yet have to face her brother’s killer. When Danielle catches my eye, she smiles greedily. She believes there’s no proof against her. All the evidence points to me, and even Marley is too out of it to come to my defense.

“Can someone tell us what happened here?” the second officer says, his weapon at his side.

“I already told you,” Danielle says. “Becca admitted everything. She attacked my friend.”

The officer looks at me, waiting for my answer.

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