Amy didn't ask Sarah.
Not yet.
The message sat heavy in her pocket:
Ask Sarah how many people left that year.
That year.
Three years ago.
Year 8.
08.
Instead, she sat through writing club with the awareness of someone standing on thin ice.
Sarah introduced the showcase properly this time.
"Next Friday," she said brightly. "Friends and family welcome. You'll each read something polished. Something honest."
Honest.
Amy felt Rowan glance at her.
Not accusing.
Not smug.
Searching.
As if trying to figure out what she already knew.
Back home, Jamie had his laptop open before she'd even taken her coat off.
"Tell me everything," he said.
Amy did.
The photo on the board.
The scratched-out name.
The 6:07 message Rowan received.
The instruction about Sarah.
Chloe sat cross-legged on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees.
"So either someone's trying to make you suspicious of Rowan," Chloe said slowly, "or someone's trying to make you suspicious of Sarah."
"Or," Jamie added, "someone wants both."
Amy's phone buzzed.
All three of them froze in their spaces.
A new notification.
Not a message.
A comment.
On her school writing portal.
Her pulse dropped and spiked at the same time.
"That's not subtle," Chloe whispered.
Amy tapped it open.
The comment was short.
You're closer than she ever was.
She.
Not him.
Not them.
She.
Jamie leaned forward. "Time stamp?"
"6:02 p.m."
Writing club ended at 5:50.
Five-minute walk.
6:00.
Two-minute window.
Again.
Her screen refreshed.
Another notification.
File shared with you: Echo_Draft.docx
Amy's hands went cold when she realised that was the same file from a few days ago.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a paragraph she recognized immediately.
Her own work.
From three weeks ago.
But edited.
Sharpened.
Sentences tightened.
Metaphors swapped.
The title changed.
Original: Quiet Between Us.
New: Echo.
Her breathing turned shallow.
At the bottom of the document, a single line:
She didn't listen either.
Chloe's voice was barely audible. "Listen to what?"
Amy thought about Rowan's words.
It starts with help.
Editing. Fixing. Improving.
Then one day you don't recognise your own voice.
Jamie scrolled back up.
"These edits aren't random," he said quietly. "They're consistent. Same style across every change."
Amy swallowed.
"How can you tell?"
"Sentence rhythm. Word choice. It's controlled. Deliberate."
Her phone buzzed again.
Text message.
The same unknown number.
Ask him what she changed second.
Amy's stomach dropped.
Second.
Not first.
Not last.
Second.
Across the street, headlights swept briefly across her bedroom ceiling.
She moved toward the window.
And froze.
Rowan stood on the pavement opposite the house.
Hands in his pockets.
Not looking at his phone.
Not typing.
Just standing there.
Watching the upstairs windows.
Chloe joined her. "Is he texting?"
Amy shook her head slowly.
"No."
Jamie stepped beside them.
"If he's not sending them—"
"Then someone else is," Amy finished.
Her phone vibrated again.
One final message.
Amy stared at the words.
Across the street, Rowan finally lifted his head.
Their eyes met through the glass.
Even from this distance—
She could see it clearly now.
Not guilt.
Not satisfied.
Fear.
And beneath it—
Recognition.
Like he knew exactly what Chapter 60 meant.
But I wasn't the one writing it.