At night I again dreamed of this burning house in Malibu. I stood frozen and watched the flames consume my memories until I heard his voice. Without a doubt, he called me...

I was once considered a successful writer, but now I am forced to write a book that will never have my name on it. At first I thought it was a dream job, because I had to write a novel that would reveal the shocking secret of Daphne du Maurier. But the deeper I plunged into the story, the more clearly I realized that I had fallen into a trap.

At first I trusted my pain to my diary, but then I began to write a book. After all, by telling the story, I ceased to be a prisoner. My story is true, but it is fictional. But the other one also wrote a novel. My novel. But I'm not a thief. I'm not even a liar. I'm just a writer.

Will I be able to extricate myself from the web of obsession, marital secrets and stolen manuscripts?