Chapter 3 - What the Publisher Needed to Know

Priya Desai did not use the word theft.

She used words like substantial similarity, access, documentation, derivative material, contractual warranties, and leverage.

Mae sat across from her in a narrow office lined with books and tried not to feel disappointed.

Part of her had wanted a professional to look at the pages and say, Yes. Obviously. Your sister stole this.

Instead, Priya spent forty minutes separating hurt from proof.

It was exactly what Mae needed.

“You have a strong factual record of access,” Priya said. “That email is significant. The date is clear, the attachment is identifiable, and Olivia’s response references specific material.”

Mae nodded.

“And the similarities?”

“Some are weak. Shared facts. Common expressions. General scenes. I would not build a claim around those.”

Mae felt herself stiffen.

Priya noticed.

“This is not me saying they don’t matter emotionally. I’m saying we should not dilute strong material with weak material.”

“What’s strong?”

Priya turned her monitor.

She had marked seven passages.

“These are much more concerning. Distinctive phrasing, close sequencing, original fictional additions that do not appear to be shared historical facts, and the private proverb. Also this.”

She highlighted a paragraph from Mae’s chapter twelve.

The scene did not come from their father’s illness.

Mae had invented it.

A daughter found an envelope of unsent letters in a coat lining after her father died. Olivia’s novel contained a similar scene, with the same discovery mechanism and two lines echoing Mae’s wording.

“That never happened to us,” Mae said.

“Exactly.”

Mae sat back.

“So what now?”

“That depends on your goal.”

“I want the publisher informed.”

“Then we send a controlled notice. Factual. No social media. No accusations we cannot support. We identify the works, dates, access, examples, and your requested preservation of relevant records.”

“Preservation?”

“Drafts, editorial correspondence, submissions, revision history.”

Mae looked at her.

“Can we ask for that?”

“We can ask them not to destroy it. If this becomes litigation, discovery is another question.”

The word litigation made Mae’s stomach tighten.

Priya saw that too.

“Do you want to sue?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then don’t decide today.”

“What would happen to Olivia?”

“Professionally?”

“Yes.”

“The publisher will investigate. Her contract likely contains representations that the work is original and does not infringe another person’s rights. If they conclude those representations were false, consequences could range from amendment to termination. It depends on the contract and facts.”

Mae looked down.

“She has dreamed of this for years.”

Priya’s tone remained gentle.

“So did you.”

Mae swallowed.

There it was.

The fact the family kept erasing.

Olivia’s dream had not been built from nothing.

Mae had dreamed too.

Not loudly.

Not strategically.

But she had.

“Will the publisher tell her I contacted them?”

“Yes.”

“Immediately?”

“Probably.”

Mae pictured Olivia receiving the email.

For one terrible second, she saw her not as the sister who had taken, but as the girl who used to crawl into Mae’s bed during thunderstorms and insist she was only there because Mae looked scared.

Love complicated anger.

It did not erase it.

“Send it,” Mae said.

Priya studied her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

They reviewed the letter together.

It did not say Olivia was a thief.

It said Mae had created an unpublished manuscript years before The House at Alder Street, had provided that manuscript to Olivia, and had identified multiple passages in the published novel that closely tracked Mae’s original expression.

It attached examples.

It asked Fenwick & Rowe to investigate.

It asked them to preserve records.

It asked that future exploitation of disputed material be paused pending review.

Mae signed the authorization.

Priya sent the notice at eleven twenty-six.

At eleven forty-three, Olivia called.

Mae let it go to voicemail.

At eleven forty-four, Elaine called.

Mae let that go too.

At eleven fifty-eight, Olivia sent a message.

You got a lawyer?

Mae did not answer.

At twelve eleven:

Do you understand what you’ve done?

Mae read that twice.

Then she put the phone face down.

At one thirty, Priya forwarded a response from Fenwick & Rowe’s general counsel.

They acknowledged receipt.

They requested copies of original metadata and asked Mae to identify whether any version of her manuscript had been submitted elsewhere.

They also stated they were initiating an internal review.

By three, the book’s promotional schedule had changed.

A radio interview disappeared from the publisher’s social media page.

Then a bookstore event scheduled for Saturday was marked postponed.

Mae did not celebrate.

Instead, she felt sick.

At four fifteen, Elaine arrived at Mae’s apartment without warning.

Mae almost did not open the door.

Then she saw her mother through the peephole carrying a paper bag from the bakery near their old house.

It was such a familiar gesture that Mae opened it.

Elaine stepped inside.

“I brought almond pastries.”

“Is this a peace offering?”

“It’s breakfast food at four in the afternoon.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Elaine placed the bag on the counter.

“I don’t know how to talk to you right now.”

Mae folded her arms.

“Try without telling me to protect Olivia.”

Elaine winced.

“I deserved that.”

Mae’s posture loosened slightly.

Her mother looked older than she had at the launch.

Not physically older.

Tired in a way Mae recognized from the months after Thomas died.

“Olivia called me crying,” Elaine said.

Mae said nothing.

“She says the publisher has frozen promotion.”

“I know.”

“She says her editor won’t speak to her directly.”

“That’s not my decision.”

“I know.”

Mae waited.

Elaine took a breath.

“I read your old manuscript.”

Mae stared.

“What?”

“You left me a printed copy years ago.”

“I forgot.”

“I didn’t.”

Elaine looked toward the window.

“I put it in the hall closet after your father died. I couldn’t read it then.”

“But you read it now?”

“Last night.”

“All of it?”

“Most.”

Mae’s heart began to pound.

“And?”

Elaine’s eyes filled.

“I recognized things.”

Mae looked away.

“Mom—”

“No. Let me finish.”

Elaine’s voice shook.

“I recognized your voice. Not just the events. The way you noticed him. The small things. The fingernails. The stupid pudding. The way he always asked the nurses their names twice because he was afraid he would forget.”

Mae sat down.

Elaine remained standing.

“I read Olivia’s book this morning beside it.”

Mae’s hands went cold.

“There are differences,” Elaine said. “A lot of differences.”

“Yes.”

“But there are things that came from you.”

Mae had expected vindication to feel like relief.

Instead, tears came.

She wiped them angrily.

Elaine sat across from her.

“I’m sorry.”

Mae shook her head.

“Don’t say that unless you know what for.”

Her mother nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry I told you not to ruin her night before I asked whether she had ruined something of yours.”

Mae looked at her.

Elaine continued.

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“That you would both do something permanent.”

“We’re adults. We can.”

“I know.”

“No, Mom. I mean it. You can’t keep us from consequences by asking the quieter person to absorb them.”

Elaine’s eyes dropped.

“I know that now.”

“Do you?”

“I’m trying.”

Mae picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.

After a while, Elaine said, “She told me you offered her the manuscript.”

Mae looked up sharply.

“What?”

“She says years ago you told her she could use anything helpful because you were done with it.”

“That never happened.”

“I asked when.”

“What did she say?”

“She couldn’t remember exactly.”

Mae stood.

“That is new.”

“I thought so.”

“Last night she said shared memories. This morning it’s permission.”

“I know.”

Mae reached for her phone.

She texted Priya.

Olivia is now claiming I gave permission to use the manuscript. I did not. My mother heard this claim today.

Priya responded within minutes.

Document exactly what your mother was told. Do not engage Olivia directly.

Elaine watched.

“You’re telling the lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Mae blinked.

Her mother gave a sad smile.

“I can learn.”

The door buzzer sounded.

Mae frowned.

She was not expecting anyone.

A courier stood downstairs with an envelope requiring signature.

The return address belonged to a law firm.

Mae signed.

Inside was a four-page letter from counsel representing Olivia.

It stated that Mae’s claims were unfounded.

It asserted that the sisters had long shared creative material.

It claimed Mae had encouraged Olivia to draw freely on “family notes and abandoned fiction.”

And it requested that Mae cease communications with third parties that could damage Olivia’s reputation.

Elaine read over Mae’s shoulder.

Her face changed.

“She never told me there was a lawyer.”

Mae handed her the letter.

Elaine read the permission paragraph again.

“She’s lying.”

Mae said nothing.

Elaine looked at her daughter.

“I mean she’s lying about what you said.”

“I know.”

“You never gave her permission?”

“No.”

Elaine set the letter down carefully.

Then she said, “There’s something I should tell you.”

Mae waited.

Elaine’s hands tightened around the page.

“About two years ago, Olivia asked me if I still had your old printed manuscript.”

Mae’s pulse thudded once, hard.

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“What happened?”

“She asked to borrow it.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“For a week.”

Mae stared.

Elaine’s voice became small.

“She told me she wanted to compare old family details because she was working on something about your father.”

Mae stood motionless.

“Did she return it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It seemed harmless.”

Mae closed her eyes.

The evidence had just changed.

Olivia had not merely kept an old digital copy from six years ago.

She had actively sought Mae’s manuscript again while writing her own novel.

Mae opened her eyes.

“Mom, I need you to write down everything you remember.”

Elaine nodded.

“For the lawyer?”

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“For the truth.”

This time, her mother did not ask Mae to let anything go.