The Stolen Novel

Last night I dreamed again of that burning house in Malibu. I stood frozen, watching the flames consume my memories until I heard his voice. Undoubtedly, he was calling me...
Once I was considered a successful writer, but now I am forced to write a book that will never bear my name.
At first, it seemed to me to be a dream job, as I was supposed to create a novel revealing the shocking secret of Daphne du Maurier. But the deeper I delved into the story, the clearer I realized that I had fallen into a trap.
I initially entrusted my pain to a diary, but then I started writing a book. For by telling the story, I stopped being a prisoner. My story is true, but it is fictional.
But she, the other one, also wrote a novel. My novel.
But I'm not a thief. I'm not even a liar.
I'm just a writer.
Will I be able to escape the web of obsession, marital secrets, and stolen manuscripts?