Page 39

After that dinner, Anna made up her mind. She was joining Julian again, to help him with his "idea." As much as she had once been passionate about her work, lately, it had started to feel monotonous, unchallenging. Julian's invitation brought an unexpected sense of excitement. On top of that, he had offered her a generous pay, one that would make it easier to leave behind her current position and fully dedicate herself to his project.

And, if she was being honest with herself, she found she quite liked the Julian she was seeing now.

......

From 1985 to 1998, Anna and Julian became an inseparable force — partners in crime, both on the page and off it. Together, they worked tirelessly, weaving their knowledge of science, puzzles, and human nature into a series of detective mystery novels that would go on to captivate readers all over the world. Their stories weren’t just clever — they were electric, layered with hidden truths and impossible ideas, disguised beneath thrilling plots.

By the early 90s, Julian Marlowe was no longer just a physicist exiled from academia — he was becoming one of the greatest and most mysterious authors of his generation. The kind of writer whose books weren’t just read — they were studied, obsessed over, whispered about in late-night conversations between curious minds.

And at a night in 1990, nothing particularly dramatic, at least on the surface. They had just finished another exhausting draft of their latest book — a complicated, layered mystery. To celebrate, Julian suggested a small, worn-down pub tucked away from the city crowds. The kind of place only locals knew. Candle-lit tables. Old wooden walls steeped in history.

They drank. Laughed more easily than usual. Talked about everything except work for once. Stories from the past. Stupid little memories. Things that didn’t matter but somehow felt like they did.

And maybe it was the comfort of years spent together... maybe it was the rare softness in Julian’s usually guarded smile... or maybe it was just the whisky.

When they left the pub that night — walking the quiet streets under the dim glow of the old lamps — they just... kept talking. About everything and nothing. About books, about old memories, about ridiculous conspiracy theories that never made it into their novels.

And without really noticing when or how, Anna found herself walking alongside him all the way back to his house.