Beneath the Scars

She hesitated, then she spoke again. “A few weeks later, he insisted on going to dinner. He wanted to go to his favorite restaurant, even inviting some of his friends to join us. He was in high spirits, telling them all he was on the verge of another bestseller and how he was writing like a mad man. He was very animated.” She looked at me with the saddest eyes and took a deep breath. “When we got back to his place, we found the door kicked in. The house was ransacked. He had been robbed.”

“Your book was still there?” I asked. “In his house?”

She nodded. “He had it for a couple weeks. We were going to discuss it when he was finished reading it, but he said he hadn’t had the chance to do so yet, because he was busy writing.”

“You didn’t have a copy of it?”

“No. I never made copies.” She sighed. “The only one who I’d ever discussed it with was him. Karen knew I was writing a new, longer story, but I never shared details with her either. I didn’t like to talk to anyone about my work—I never did.”

“And then?”

“He became sullen again. Nasty. Withdrawn. I thought it was over the break-in. I was so upset myself; I wasn’t thinking very well. I didn’t know how to start rewriting my story, or if I even could. A couple of weeks later, he broke up with me, and let me go, stating my job position was no longer needed.”

“Let me guess,” I interjected sarcastically. “Not long after that, he submitted a brand-new-never-seen-before manuscript?”

She nodded. “About three months after we broke up, I heard about it. My friend who worked at the publishing house, and had originally told me about the job, had seen it. I was curious when she said it wasn’t at all like what his editor thought he was working on. She gave me the basic outline.”

“It was your story.”

“Yes.”

“He stole your manuscript. He set it all up.”

She nodded, her lip trembling a little.

I could feel anger stirring in my gut. “Did you go after him?”

“I tried. I went to him first and he denied it—refuted every accusation I made. Denied he had ever seen me write anything. Demanded proof the manuscript he’d been working on was actually mine.”

“Of which you had none,” I stated the obvious, arching my eyebrow at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she pleaded.

“Like what?”

Her voice rose in distress, her words rapid. “I know I was an idiot! I kept my book all together, in an old torn satchel because it meant something to me! I should have made copies, kept notes separately. If I’d been smart, I would’ve told all my friends about it, and typed the damn thing on a computer. I never thought something like this would happen. Once it was finished, I planned on making a copy and then having it transcribed onto a computer, but—”

“But you never had a chance,” I finished for her, my tone a little more gentle.

“No. I went to my friend who was a lawyer, and he went to the publishing house on my behalf. They, of course, backed up Jared. It escalated and became the word of a successful, published author and his solid reputation against the word of an ex-assistant, slash, girlfriend, who had only ever published a couple light romances on her own.” She shook her head, looking frustrated. “Both he and his team came after me with a vengeance. I tried to use him to further my career. I was trying to destroy his reputation. I abused his trust. I was slammed in the papers and the publishing world. He even went so far as to allow his home to be searched for the “so-called” book folder, which, of course, they never found.”

I was sure he’d used the time he had to transcribe it, and then burned the original. It only made sense.

“So, what about proof of when it was written?”

“According to his computer files, it was started months before I came to work for him.”

I nodded. No doubt he rewrote an older file.

“Did you try to rewrite it?”

“I have been, but some of it is over two years old. And it’s his word against mine. He said he had shown me some of what he had written so it looks like I’m copying him.”

“There is no one you told? At all?”

She shook her head.

“But you know the ending.”

“No, that part he changed. Just enough so it’s different than what I described. He changed a few other things, too.”

“Of course,” I mused. This guy was either very clever or he did this before and knew all the loopholes. “He’s covered all his bases, hasn’t he?”

“Do you—do you believe me?”

I looked at her as her words ran through my head. Even given my trust issues, her story rang true. “Absolutely.”