After the deposition, things moved fast. The Maine Attorney General's office opened a formal investigation into Tidewater Ink, Harborlight Audio, and Blue Heron Holdings. Subpoenas went out. Bank records were frozen. And then, one rainy morning, Frank called me with news that made me sit down: Marcus Bell had been arrested. Not for copyright theft — for tax fraud and wire fraud, charges that came from the money trail Frank had found. The local news ran the story that night: "Literary Agent Arrested in $1.4 Million Royalty Fraud Scheme." Marcus's face, gray and stunned, filled the television screen. I watched it with Claire and Sophie in my living room, the three of us holding hands, none of us saying a word.
Marcus's arrest broke something open in Dana and Richard. Within days, their stories started to diverge. Dana told her lawyers she knew nothing about the shell companies. Richard told his lawyers that Dana had handled all the money. They were turning on each other, exactly the way people do when the walls close in. Daniel told me this was normal — and useful. "When co-defendants start blaming each other," he said, "the truth comes out in the gaps between their stories."
But Dana was not done fighting. She announced a big public event: a launch party for the paperback edition of *Where the Tide Remembers*, at a fancy hotel in Portland, with press, fans, and a live reading. It was a bold move — a show of confidence, a message that she was not afraid. Or, as Daniel saw it, an opportunity. "Nora," he said, his eyes gleaming, "she's going to stand on a stage, in front of cameras, and read your words out loud. We need to be there. Not to make a scene — to make a record."
We prepared carefully. Daniel filed a motion asking the court to allow a process server to deliver papers at the event. Frank arranged for a videographer. Sophie agreed to come, for the first time, into the same room as Dana since her own book was stolen. Claire took the day off work. And I bought a new dress — not for Dana, not for the cameras, but for myself, because I was done hiding in my house while a thief wore my story like a coat.
The night before the event, though, fear came back like a tide. I sat on my porch, looking out at the water, and I thought about Tom, about how he used to tell me my writing would matter someday. "Someday, Nora," he'd say, "the right people will read it." I wished he were there. I wished he could see what was about to happen. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Lydia Marsh, the editor: "I found something. In Sophie's manuscript file. Dana's notes, in her own handwriting, on Sophie's pages. She edited the book she stole. I'm bringing them tomorrow." Dana's handwriting, on the stolen manuscript, proving she had read it, edited it, and then published it as her own. That was the kind of evidence lawyers dream about. I slept that night — really slept, for the first time in months — with my new dress hanging on the closet door and my folder of proof packed and ready by the bed.
