I saw the burning house in Malibu in my sleep again—burning, devouring my memories. And in that dream I heard his voice calling me...
Earlier, I was a successful writer. But now I have to write a book that will be published under someone else’s name.
At first, it seemed like a wonderful job—to uncover the mystery of Daphne du Maurier. But the more I dug into the story, the more I realized I’d fallen into a trap.
First I trusted my pain to a diary, but then I started writing the book. Because telling a story frees you. My story is true—but it’s also made up.
And he wrote a novel. My novel.
I’m not a thief, not a liar. I’m just a writer.
Will I be able to escape this web of obsession, family secrets, and stolen manuscripts?