Amy didn't tell Jamie everything.
Not yet.
She told him about Rowan's sister.
About the hacked accounts.
About the edits.
She didn't tell him how Rowan had watched her face while he spoke.
Not accusing.
Not defensive.
But measuring.
They were in the kitchen when she finished. Chloe sat cross-legged on one of the chairs with her phone in her hand but screen dark.
"So," Jamie said slowly, "has this happened before. You know with someone's writing being shared but not knowing who?"
"Yes. It happened to Rowan's sister and she didn't know who shared it."
"At the same school?"
"Yes."
"And now it's happening to you."
Amy nodded.
Chloe lowered her phone. "What if it never stopped?"
No one answered that. But Amy knew from what Rowan said what happened to his sister and that she stopped writing.
Mrs Carter's voice drifted faintly from the living room — calm, steady, unaware.
Amy's mind kept circling one detail.
Year 8.
Before she came to live here.
Before things felt stable.
Before she learned what safe could look like.
She pushed the thoughts away.
"We need to think practically," Jamie said. "Access. Who has it?"
"Students," Chloe replied. "Teachers. IT."
"And anyone who knows a password," Jamie added.
Amy's stomach tightened.
I already know it.
Writing club felt different.
Not tense.
Not openly.
Just... charged.
Amy arrived two minutes early on purpose.
Rowan was already there.
He always was.
He always seemed to get there before Amy, like he was waiting for something or someone to arrive.
Sarah was rearranging chairs. "Hi," she said warmly. "You're keen."
"Couldn't sleep," Amy replied.
Rowan's gaze flicked toward her at that.
The others filtered in. Steam from mugs. Low conversation. Pages being straightened.
Sarah clapped lightly. "Tonight we're working in pairs."
Amy's pulse shifted.
"Swap notebooks," Sarah continued. "Write a continuation of the last line in your partner's piece from last week."
Continuation.
Not yours.
Amy looked up thinking that whoever got hold of her notebook can change everything about her writing..
Rowan was already looking at her.
"Pair up."
There weren't many options.
They sat across from each other.
Deliberate.
Careful.
They exchanged notebooks.
He felt heavier than she expected.
She opened it.
The final line from last week stared back at her:
It's not about stealing. It's about proving you can.
Her mouth went dry.
Across the table, Rowan opened hers.
She hadn't written about passwords.
She'd written about library books.
Dog-eared pages.
Borrowed things.
"Ten minutes," Sarah said.
Amy forced her pen to move.
She wrote beneath his sentence:
Proving you can doesn't mean you should.
Her handwriting wasn't as steady as she would have liked.
She didn't look up.
But she could feel him reading.
Not physically.
Just... there.
When time was called, Sarah asked them to read what their partner had written.
Rowan went first.
He read Amy's continuation evenly. No emphasis. No pause.
He gave nothing away.
Then it was her turn.
She looked down at what he'd written beneath her metaphor.
Sometimes the person who folds the page isn't the one who checked the book out.
Her chest tightened.
It wasn't an accusation.
It wasn't a denial.
It was a redirect.
The room felt smaller.
When the session ended, neither of them rushed for the stairs.
"You think I did it," Rowan said quietly as they reached the landing.
Amy blinked. "What?"
"You look at me like I'm the answer."
"Like what?"
"Like I fit."
She held his gaze.
"I don't know what you are," she said.
It wasn't cruel.
It was honest.
Something shifted in his expression — not anger, not relief. Something harder to place.
"That's fair," he said.
They descended the stairs together.
At the café door, he paused.
"For what it's worth," he added, "when it happened to my sister, everyone thought she'd shared her password."
Amy swallowed.
"But she hadn't."
He shook his head once.
"No."
A beat.
"Be careful who you trust."
The bell above the café door jingled as someone walked in.
The moment fractured.
Rowan stepped outside.
Amy lingered for a second longer than necessary.
Five minutes home.
That was all it was.
Five minutes.
But as she walked, something shifted.
Not fear.
Not quite.
Awareness.
Whoever was doing this—
Had to be close.
Close enough to know her drafts.
Close enough to know Rowan's sister.
Close enough to share the same five-minute stretch of pavement.
But who could it be?
And suddenly—
Five minutes didn't feel short.
It felt narrow.
Like distance wasn't protection.
It was an opportunity.