"Have you told them yet?"
Phoebe Hewitt saw The Author's grin fade out of the corner of her eye as she chopped vegetables on the plastic 'marble' lab bench. They had been sitting in the kitchen area for nearly two hours, swapping stories from the past three years. When the writer had burst out of the wrought-iron elevator doors that morning, all smiles and dragging that red-headed kid behind him, she had instantly known something was wrong, even after not seeing the man for so long. The Author had never been one to toss smiles around, but there he was, laughing and grinning like a maniac as he lifted her right off the floor into a hug. She had waited all day enough to ask, and the delayed response proved her fears right. There was no question as to who she was talking about. The thick silence was only broken by the snap of the knife on the table. The Author seemed very interested in something lurking in the bottom of his mug.
"No. I can't."
"You're going to have to sooner or later, Sam." Phoebe's expression was stern as leaned on the counter to speak to him. "They need to know." Not a suggestion, but a command. She walked over to the cupboard where seemingly everything was kept, searching for onions and carrots amongst the beakers of chemicals. None of the lab workers ever stuck around for dinner. The loud clink of The Author's cup echoed through the sterile room as it was set heavily on the stone.
"It's not that bloody easy, Phoebe."
"Well, I know that. I'll go with you, it won't be so ba-"
"How am I supposed to tell them that I fucking killed him?"
"You didn't." There was no pause in her reply. It was simply fact, not denial. She spun on her heel to look at him, blue-green eyes wide and perched on his seat as if he would take flight at any moment.
"If I hadn't convinced him to come, nothing would have happened." Phoebe let out a frustrated sigh.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" She had known the man her entire life, and was well acquainted with his stubbornness. He could decide something was true, no matter how little evidence there was, and would never change his mind. If there was one thing that The Scientist couldn't stand, it was an opinion based on circumstantial evidence. She grumbled through gritted teeth and took his face firmly in her hands. "It was just an accident. You're telling them it was an accident."
"But it was my fault. I could have stopped it from happening."
"For god's sake, Sam. There is no way you could have prevented whatever happened. When did he ever listen to you anyway? If this didn't- no, don't you talk, I'm lecturing you- happen, something else would have. You know as well as I that you can't do everything. You can't mess with fate, the gods decide when people die. It's not their fault, it has to be done."
"Well, fuck them. And stop calling me Sam." The Author slid off the high stool and pulled a crumpled cigarette from his back pocket. "�look, just call me when supper is ready, alright? I'll clean the dishes, promise." He shot her a smile that would seem sincere to anyone else, but was painfully fake to his friend. She smiled back anyway; she never liked to end a conversation angry.