Page 83 of The Writer

“It’s our first big event,” I say, lowering myself into the chair across from her.

“We better get used to this. We have four more readings before the holidays.”

How a Fake Murder Caught a Real Killerhas been a runaway hit. Marley and I started writing shortly after Danielle’s arrest, and an agent swooped up our proposal before we were even finished. Marley is set to start a true crime podcast, after all, andNight Beat, my first novel, is scheduled to release next spring. A year ago, I never would have imagined this level of success.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time,” the attendant says, leaving the clipboard on the table between us. “Here are the moderator’s notes if you want to look over them.”

Alone in the room, the reality of everything that’s happened in the past year begins to set in. When I think of the night Layla died, it’s difficult to separate what I thought happened from the truth. For years, I blamed Michael Massey. I blamed myself. I imagined her death hundreds of times, never knowing the real culprit was someone else entirely. There’s no way I could have saved her, I realize, not when Danielle was, unknowingly, watching her every move.

On the day of her arrest, I handed over the recorded confession to Chaz and Wooley as soon as we made it to the police station. Turns out they’d been keeping tabs on me, would have likely arrived even if it wasn’t for my hurried call to 911. The detectives claim they were only trying to keep me safe, but I still believe I was their number one suspect, until I captured Danielle’s confession on tape.

The recording in hand, they were able to switch their sights to her. It didn’t take them long to find additional evidence tying her to the location of Jessica Wilder’s murder, and she never presented a convincing alibi for the night of Darryl Nease’s death. Technical data even shows when she likely hacked into my email account to send those messages. The list of evidence against her is long, and after years of tormenting me with the black hearts, I feel a sense of relief knowing she’s behind bars.

Of course, Danielle’s arrest means Michael Massey has a chance of being released. The justice system moves at an even slower pace than publishing, so I’m not sure when that will be, but he has a hearing coming up soon. I’m conflicted about his fate. Part of me pities the fact he spent a decade in prison for a murder he didn’t commit; however, when I consider the testimony of his living victims, or dare myself to recall the night I was nearly assaulted at the frat house, I’m convinced he is where he needs to be.

“Did you read over the moderator’s questions?” Marley asks.

My throat is dry when I try to speak. “Yeah. I did.”

“What’s going on with you?” she asks, sensing my uneasiness. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I stare at her. Marley has always reminded me of Layla, ever since that first meeting, but looking at her now, all I can see are their differences. It was never the event in front of our readers that had my nerves all twisted. It’s the conversation I’m about to have now with Marley, my collaborator and friend.

I pull the clipboard on the table closer to me, flipping through the same series of questions I studied last night in preparation for the day’s event.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the timeline. The murders of Jessica Wilder and Darryl Nease. Do you ever feel guilty that we’re profiting off their deaths?”

“We’re profiting off our own experiences,” she says, firmly. “Remember, we lost people, too. Layla and Brandon. Besides, a portion of the sales goes to charities. We should be proud of that.”

“I am.” I stop when I see the question that’s been keeping me up at night. The one that’s been impossible for me to answer after all this time. “Check out question twenty-three.”

I shove the clipboard closer to her, and she reads. Of course, she would have already seen it. We were both given a copy and asked to comment on anything we did or didn’t want mentioned.

Marley sits upright, pushing the clipboard back to me. “I scratched that one out. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s been bothering me though.”

The question reads:Any idea why Danielle chose not to leave a black heart at the scene of Darryl Nease’s death?

I sit back, looking straight at Marley, and ask, “Why did you scratch that one off?”

“We have a limited amount of time. We can’t get to every question, especially if we want time for readers to ask their own.” She pauses. “And there was a black heart at the bridge. It was left with the article about Layla’s death, remember?”

The fear of finding that article still feels fresh. It was the first time I made a solid connection between Layla’s death and the hearts and the copycat crimes. The first time I acknowledged all the horrors writing that story had brought to life.

“Danielle left that before I arrived at the bridge. Before I came looking for you and we talked at the diner. Long before Darryl Nease was pushed.”

“So?”

“His body was found with a copy of my story,” I remind her.

“Right. Just like a copy ofThe Mistakewas sent to the police station.”

“There was a black heart with that,” I say. “No black heart was left at Darryl Nease’s crime scene.”

“The man was found in a river. No telling what evidence was lost.” She crosses her arms over her chest, kicking her feet back on the table. “What are you getting at, anyway?”

“When we met at the diner, I told you my suspicions about what had been happening. The copycat crimes. Jessica Wilder’s murder mimickingThe Mistake.” I pause, watching her closely. “I never told you about the black hearts.”

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