Beneath the Scars

* * *Bill smiled as he handed me a glass of water. I turned back to the window, taking in the view from his office high over the city, staring as the city bustled and teamed below me. It was so different from the vast expanse of water I was now used to. Surrounded by massive buildings and noise; cars and people moved fast, hustling to their destinations. When outside, I found the noise too much to handle. I stifled a sigh as the longing for the open space of Cliff’s Edge swept through me. I inhaled a deep gulp of air, frowning as the scent of Bill’s coffee hit me, and I had to swallow my sudden nausea. My nerves were certainly getting to me today. I sipped the cool liquid gratefully and rubbed my weary eyes.

“Are you all right, Megan?” Bill asked in a concerned voice. “You look very pale.”

“I’m fine. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know. Are you sure you don’t want to put this meeting off? I can postpone it.”

“No. I want it done.” I walked over to the chair across from Bill and farthest away from his coffee. “I know the firefighters discovered the hidden manuscripts and they’re now in the hands of his publishers, but how did Jared get them in the first place? Besides mine, I mean.”

Bill leaned back in his chair. “He discovered them by accident. Something was stuck in a drawer; he was trying to get it out and triggered the mechanism. The back opened up and there they were—dusty and forgotten. His proverbial ship had come in.”

I shook my head in disgust. As always, he would grab onto the opportunity—the easiest road for Jared. Whatever required the least effort and the most reward—that was how he worked.

“He did some checking and found out the manuscripts had been written by a previous owner of the house. His only living relative was a grandson who barely knew his grandfather, who became a recluse in later years. No one knew about the books. Apparently, like you, he didn’t like to talk about his writing. His grandson has vague recollections of his grandfather telling him made-up stories when he was young, but had no idea he had turned those simple stories into novels. Three complete novels and the outline of the fourth, all waiting for him to lay claim.”

“Why did he take mine? I don’t understand if he had such a good thing going. It makes no sense.”

Bill drained his coffee and set his mug on the desk, folding his hands on the dark wood. “Ah, there’s where he made his biggest mistake, Megan. He’d worked at the publishing house as a researcher and he’s a smart man. He had a passing knowledge of the business and what they were looking for in manuscripts—he was able to rework some details and modernize the books so they were current. He made friends with a couple editors and got the first one looked at.”

Of course he “made friends.” That was what Jared did; it served his purpose.

“It was huge; it made him a great deal of money.”

Bill smirked. “Made, as in past tense. The books have been removed from circulation and the legal ramifications are huge for not only Jared, but the publishers, as well.”

I tried not to feel a sense of satisfaction from those words, but I failed.

“The second and third books,” Bill continued, “were even bigger. Now Jared had a choice. He could have ended it at the third book and rested on his laurels. He certainly made enough money to do so. There was talk of a movie deal and merchandising—the whole ball of wax—but his ego came into play. He believed his own press and decided he could use the outline to write the fourth book.”

I remembered reading the draft. How unlike the first three books it was—badly written and choppy.

“He couldn’t write it.”

“He couldn’t write his way out of a wet paper bag.” Bill laughed. “All his life he did the least amount of work possible, getting by on his looks. His talent was research, finding loopholes. He did it as a profession and used the same pattern to run his own life. The outline wasn’t complete and he was drowning. ” He tilted his head, regarding me. “Then you came in and—”

“Handed him my book,” I interrupted him. “I know what an idiot I was, Bill.”

He shrugged. “You trusted him. He’s good at getting people to trust him. He fooled an entire country, Megan.

“But he screwed himself. Instead of destroying the evidence, he kept it. The manuscripts were like trophies to him. He caused his own downfall. You were in the right place at the wrong time and he needed your book to buy him some time.” He snorted with disgust. “He thought, and I’m quoting here, ‘all he needed was a little more time to write the last book.’ He had no conscience when it came to stealing your work. Or the work of a dead man. Jared has no morals.”