Page 2 of The Ghostwriter

(10/10) It baffles me that publishers want to support people like this. Who think John Calder is enough of a talent to give him money and a platform to do it.

Because of that, John Calder went on a national media blitz decrying my attempt to cancel him. Then he sued, claiming that he lost out on two book deals because of me, the subjects deciding to go in a less controversial direction. The trial was held in the state where the literary festival had been, and I found myself in front of a judge just itching to put a mouthy woman in her place. He slapped a prohibitive fine on me, $500,000, and advised me to be mindful of my words. To not let myself get so emotional. Tocalm down.

And while people were quietly supportive, that didn’t extend to recommending me for ghostwriting jobs. It wasn’t as simple as changing my name and writing under an alias. In this genre, you needed a proven track record to get the big books, and mine had been one of the best. Until it wasn’t.

“You know I’ve made every call,” Nicole says now. “Tried to cash in on every favor. We just have to wait this out.”

To be honest, it’s a miracle she hasn’t dropped me as a client.

I want to say no to this project. I have to say no—not just because I’ve worked hard to completely separate myself from my family and the trauma that sits at the center of it, but also because I won’t allow myself to be manipulated by my father. Because there’s no way this is about a job.

“I thought Vincent Taylor retired a few years ago,” I say.

“Men like him love to stage a comeback,” Nicole says. “However, I got the sense, talking with his team, that it’s not going very well. They’ve hitsome snags, and if this book can be delivered on their timeline, without any more problems, they might be willing to work with us on other projects.” She pauses for emphasis. “This could open the door for you again.”

I walk to the edge of the patio, where a handmade railing carved from an old oak tree divides my property from the national forest land below it, and stare into the cloudy distance. “What kind of snags?” I ask. “What’s the problem?”

“They were light on details. There will be full disclosure once you agree.”

A hawk circles overhead, and I feel a sudden wariness, an affinity with the invisible creature it’s hunting. “How much?” I finally ask.

“They’re starting at two fifty. I can probably get them up since he’s asking for you specifically. There’s also a royalty split that, if the book earns out—and there’s no reason to think that it won’t—will be a solid source of income for you.” She pauses. “You might not have to sell your house.”

The hawk dives and I turn away from the view and back toward my house, remembering the couple who’d toured it just days ago, gliding up the driveway in their silent Tesla, the husband’s sockless feet in expensive Italian loafers, the wife clutching her Birkin bag to her chest as they navigated the dirt path winding toward the wooden stairs that led up to the front door. I’d smiled at them on my way out, knowing I didn’t want to subject myself to the opinions of potential buyers, but the woman’s voice floated down to me from above as I sat in my car with the windows down. “This is a teardown,” she’d said, disdain dripping through her words.

And later that evening, when my real estate agent called to tell me they weren’t going to make an offer, she’d suggested dropping the price. Again.

“Fine,” I tell Nicole now, knowing I’ll regret it. Knowing this job will cost me in ways I can’t even begin to imagine.

“I’ll let them know and circle back with full details.”

“How soon does he want to start?” I ask.

“They’re in a rush, so I’m thinking it’ll move quickly. Plan to head up there by the end of the week.”

We disconnect, and I look back toward the canyon, no sign of the hawk or its prey. I try to think about this not just as an opportunity, but a necessity. My father used to always sayNo regrets, no looking back. I make a promise to not let myself get sucked into whatever plan he’s got for me. Because this book has to be a ruse; my father has been churning out novels for decades, and he certainly doesn’t need my help to do it. I will view it as a necessary evil to move past this phase of my life—to stave off the overdraft notices arriving almost daily on my phone. To pay what I owe to both John Calder and my attorney. And perhaps to also get some closure with a man who has been virtually unknown to me my entire life.

Regardless, at age forty-four and after nearly a three-decade absence, I’m finally going back home.

Chapter 2

On Friday, Tom is up to see me off, the early morning light just barely brushing the tops of the trees surrounding my house. I stand on the deck drinking my coffee, looking out over the canyon, an interesting mix of anxiety and nerves swirling through me. When the contract had landed in my in-box on Wednesday, I’d called Nicole to go over the details.

“They don’t want to disclose he worked with a ghostwriter, so you’re going to need to keep this quiet,” she’d said. “They’d suggested an NDA, but I was able to walk them back by reminding them that you’re a pro and have worked on projects like this before.”

“That’s fine,” I said. The last thing I wanted was to let anyone know I was ghostwriting a horror novel for a man despised almost as much as John Calder.

Nicole’s voice cut through the line, reading from the contract. “‘AUTHOR will not reveal collaboration on WORK in conversations, interviews, media,’ blah blah,” she read. “Obviously, since it’s VincentTaylor, he’s going to want his fans to think he wrote it himself. But the publisher will know, and that’s all we care about.”

“Understood,” I told her, not bothering to say that I would take this secret to my grave—happily—if it meant I could get back to work. I tried not to think about what taking this job said about me. How easily I’ve lowered myself to Calder’s level, taking on a project for the size of the advance and not caring who the collaboration was with.

Tom comes up next to me and together we look out into the distance, the sky a silken pink that reminds me of the mountains surrounding Ojai at sunset. But of course I don’t mention that.

When I’d told him about the job, he’d had a hundred questions—who, where, how long. I deflected by telling him there was an NDA and that I wasn’t able to disclose anything. And while it was technically a lie—I hadn’t been asked to sign anything—I rationalized it by reminding myself that I’d worked on many books before where I couldn’t disclose I was the ghostwriter and that this wasn’t any different. But I knew he’d be angry if he found out. Tom grew up in a house full of lies—both of his parents were narcissists who cheated and manipulated and lied—and when we became serious, he was upfront about how lying was a nonstarter for him.

But I hadn’t known that yet when I gave him the backstory I’ve given everyone since moving back to the United States—that I was raised by two loving parents and that my father had died suddenly of a heart attack when I was abroad for high school, and that my mother had passed away from uterine cancer while I was in college. In those early days, when we were still sharing the basics about our lives, I never considered telling him the real story. I hadn’t told anyone, for years, about who I was related to, or what had happened in my family. So it never felt like a lie I was telling Tom specifically. The truth lives far away, in a distant corner of my past that I have no intention of ever visiting. There was no reason to worry about discovery because there was no way I’d ever have a reason to contacteither of my parents. It doesn’t impact who I am as a partner to him. It’s simply not relevant.

“Are you all packed?” he asks me now.

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