Chapter 45 – Someone Always Knows
The café was too quiet for 3 p.m. Not that Nova noticed—she hadn't really heard much of anything lately, not even her own thoughts. They all sounded like static now. That empty kind that comes right before a storm.
She stirred her drink even though she wasn't thirsty, eyes locked on the doorway like a woman waiting for a ghost.
And then—he walked in.
Not a ghost.
Worse.
It was Jude.
Leather jacket. That familiar scar slicing across his brow. The past she thought she'd left rotting behind a city and three unpublished drafts.
He saw her instantly, of course. She was the only one sitting alone, clutching a coffee like it was a lifeline.
"Nova," he said, pulling out a chair without asking. "Didn't expect to see your name in the credits of Flames in the Night. And certainly not… paired with hers."
She froze. Bea's name always hit differently when someone else said it—especially someone who used to know her before all of this.
"What do you want, Jude?"
"To talk." He leaned forward. "About the fire."
Her pulse roared.
"Fire?" Her voice was ice. "We write fiction."
He smirked. "That's what I used to say too. Until someone found the photos I thought I destroyed."
Nova's stomach dropped.
This wasn't a conversation. This was a warning.
---
Back at their loft, Nova burst through the door.
Bea turned from the wall of notes and timelines they'd stuck up. "What happened?"
Nova collapsed onto the couch. "He found me."
Bea went still. "Who?"
"Jude."
The silence was immediate and vicious.
Bea's hands trembled against the arms of her chair. "And?"
"He has photos."
"Of the scene?"
Nova nodded.
Bea didn't curse. She never did. She calculated. Her eyes flicked toward their whiteboard, the timelines, the character arcs.
"They match the manuscript," she whispered.
It wasn't a question. It was a death sentence.
---
They stayed up all night.
Not writing. Not plotting.
Burning things.
Printouts. Drafts. Notes. Anything that could trace back to the truth they'd hidden beneath metaphors and misdirection.
Bea tossed a bundle of handwritten outlines into the fire. "We should've gone with the cleaner ending."
"No," Nova said. "We went with the real one."
"That's the problem."
---
The next morning, an email arrived.
No subject. Just one line in the body:
> "The flames always tell the truth. Even when you don't."
Attached was a single photo.
Nova and Bea—standing near the ruins, ash in their hair, wide-eyed.
Someone had been watching.
Nova's hands shook as she passed the phone to Bea.
Bea stared at it for a long time. Then said:
"Okay. We pivot."
Nova blinked. "What?"
"We don't bury this." Bea stood, her fire reignited. "We write it. We own it."
"But—"
"If the flames want truth," Bea said, "then we'll burn them with ours. Word for word. Page by page."
She turned to the whiteboard. Erased the current plan. Began sketching out a new one.
Nova watched her in awe and fear.
"Bea… you're talking about war."
Bea looked over her shoulder.
"No. I'm talking about Chapter 50. And how to survive long enough to write it."