Page 3 of The Ghostwriter

“Pretty much,” I say.

He pulls me into a tight hug, and I feel a flare of guilt that this secret I thought was so carefully hidden is suddenly right next to me again. A beating heart, waiting for me to acknowledge it.

He walks me to my car, carrying my bag, and leans down to give me one last kiss through my open window. “Call me when you’re settled tonight, okay?”

My eyes lock on his, and in this moment, I regret taking the job. I shouldn’t be doing this—not just lying to him about the legalities of it but returning to a place I decided to leave long ago. But the contract is signed, the advance is being processed, and the only thing I can do is hope I can be in and out without incident.

***

I take the coast north, cutting east toward Ojai at Ventura, allowing my mind to travel back to my childhood, before I knew about the murders or noticed the cloud of suspicion that trailed after my father. To a time when we lived in a tiny apartment just off Ojai Avenue. Every Sunday, we’d eat lunch at Nina’s Diner, where I’d inhale one of their burgers with the famous red relish and my father would mainline black coffee, trying to regulate whatever hangover he had at the time. He’d entertain me with stories about Lionel Foolhardy—a clumsy and accident-prone boy whose good intentions created disaster wherever he went—pet guinea pigs accidentally set loose in the classroom when Lionel was assigned to clean the cage. A small fire caused by a science experiment gone wrong.

But that was before my father’s writing career had exploded. Before his drinking had gotten worse, before he’d spiraled into cocaine as well. It wasonly as an adult that I’d realized what he was doing—self-medicating to deal with whatever trauma he carried. Drugs, alcohol, women—he was a frequent topic in the tabloids until even the media grew weary of him.

I’m not estranged from my father because I think he killed Danny and Poppy. Despite his many flaws, I don’t believe the man I once worshipped could be a murderer. But fame and trauma turned a once loving father into one I barely recognized. Habits became addictions and the father I knew disappeared, replaced by a man who consistently let me down. Who, after my mother abandoned me, decided to do the same. Sent abroad to boarding school at age fourteen, I spent most school holidays rattling around an empty campus or with friends. When he did manage to cobble together a vacation, I spent my time alone because my father always booked last-minute speaking engagements wherever we went, and then he’d spend the rest of his time in the hotel bar. It’s hard to know who hurt me more—my mother for leaving and never looking back, or my father, who disappeared before my eyes. Pieces of him vanishing like a parlor trick, until there was no one left but me.

***

As I enter the outskirts of Ojai, I note the changes in the landscape. New money flushing the old Ojai out. I pass through downtown, traffic clogging Ojai Avenue as tourists crisscross the two-lane road, people floating by on bikes borrowed from the resort, and memories come flooding back. Of riding on my father’s shoulders, eating an ice cream cone. Of holding my mother’s hand as we crossed the street, her swishing skirt more vivid in my mind than her face. Of the light in Ojai, this magical golden hue that fades to pink just as the sun sets. The scent of eucalyptus and rosemary on the miles of trails surrounding the town.

And of Jack Randall, the son of Danny’s best friend, Mark. Jack, a boy who’d also been raised by someone traumatized by that day in 1975.We’d each learned early on how to live alongside memories never spoken aloud. But together, we searched for answers in secret, whispering our theories behind my closed bedroom door or at the lunch table at school.

Aside from poring over my father’s photo albums, we would visit the library, telling the librarian we were working on a report about the history of Ojai. In reality, we spent the time flipping through microfiche news articles from June and July 1975, looking for information on the murders. Those articles offered little more than vague pieces to the puzzle.An active case being aggressively pursued.But the ten-year retrospective in the Ojai paper was much more detailed, probably because my father was no longer a minor and people were ready to name names.

The police’s working theory from the beginning was that the killer was someone passing through town. Poppy had reportedly hitchhiked into Ventura and back again the weekend before, and they were looking for anyone who’d seen Poppy get out of that car, hoping to lock down a make and model. Track down the man who’d met a young, attractive girl and returned the following weekend because he saw an opportunity. Danny had just been collateral damage. But among the locals, there were rumors. Rumblings of a different story that began to surface. That were later passed between my classmates like that newspaper article. Stories about fights between my father and Danny. About how my father and Poppy had been seen arguing shortly before the murders. That my father had gotten physical with her.

There is so much to unravel, tangled not just by perspective, but by the passage of time. Nearly fifty years have gone by. Memories have faded. Innuendo and suspicion have calcified into something concrete. Everyone has a theory, but no one has any answers. And my father sits at the center, refusing to acknowledge any of it.

One thing he will say to anyone who dares to bring it up is that he had an alibi. He’d been with my mother, Lydia, which was verified by the teacher who’d also been with them, mediating an argument between myparents.It was good enough for the police. I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.

Soon, traffic slows down enough for me to realize none of the familiar landmarks are left—the ice cream parlor with its round globe lights in rainbow colors, the mom-and-pop pharmacy where Jack once stole a five-cent piece of Bazooka gum just to prove that he could. But if I stare hard enough, I feel like I might see Jack on his BMX bike, weaving his way through the pedestrians, and me pedaling hard on my old Schwinn, trying to keep up. I know he still lives here, running his family winery, and I wonder if he’d recognize me. Or if his eyes would slide over me, just another tourist passing through.

Chapter 3

My father’s street on the east end of town remains mostly unchanged, and as I turn into the long driveway, the years fall away. I consult the small Post-it on my dash, punching in the code sent to me by my father’s attorney, and the electronic gates swing open. My tires crunch on the gravel, the foliage on either side thick and green, and I pull into an open carport, parking next to a fountain that used to bubble water but is now dry and cracked.

The house is a two-story Spanish-style hacienda my father bought shortly after his first book sold one million copies. It looks the same at a glance but is showing the years upon closer inspection. Chipped roof tiles, peeling paint around the windows. But the landscapers have been doing their job keeping the space clear of weeds, switching out the roses I remember for drought-resistant plants and hardscape. The steps leading up to the oak front door are swept, the hand-painted tiles still colorful and bright.

I lift my hand to knock, but the door opens as if the person on the other side had been waiting for me.

But it’s not my father. It’s a small woman wearing a blue track suit, her gray hair in a low bun at the base of her neck. I look beyond her, expecting to see or hear my father, but the space behind her is empty.

She raises her eyebrows, as if expecting me to explain myself. I glance over my shoulder toward the driveway, then say, “I’m Olivia Dumont.”

“Dumont.” She rolls her eyes. “I know who you are.” Finally, she steps aside, allowing me to pass through the foyer and into the great room. The same furniture—well-worn leather chairs and couches in the same configuration—greets me. The terra-cotta floor gives the space a warmth against the white plaster walls. Dark beams high above are free of dust and cobwebs.

Unsure what to do, I stand there waiting. The directions from my father’s attorney had been very specific. I was to drive straight to the house, arriving no later than nine in the morning. I was to tell no one in town who I was or why I was there. I would be staying in the guesthouse and working only in the mornings with Mr. Taylor.

“My name is Alma,” she says, though she doesn’t say who she is to my father—a companion? Some kind of housekeeper? “Can I get you some tea? I was just going to make some for Mr. Taylor.”

“I’d love something stronger, if you have it. A gin and tonic?” I give a hollow laugh. “I know it’s early but…” I’m surprised by how tense I am. Forever that young girl, quivering with nerves at the prospect of a difficult conversation with her father.

She mutters something under her breath about fathers and daughters before gesturing toward the back staircase. “He’s in his office. I assume you know the way.”

Dismissed, I take the back stairs, a narrow tunnel that drops me just outside my old bedroom. I ease the door open and see it exactly as I remember. My bed shoved into a corner under the window, where I used to lie and stare at the stars peeking through the trees. Dreaming of one day leaving this town. I’d gotten what I wanted, but I never expected I’dget it so soon. Never expected how easy it was for my father to ship me off to Switzerland when I was fourteen and resume his life as if I’d been a phase.Fatherhood? I tried that once. It was fun for a little while.

I keep walking, past my father’s closed bedroom door to the end of the hallway, then down three steps to the door of his study, a corner room perched above the garage. I hesitate. The last time I spoke to my father was the night of my college graduation. But that wasn’t the last time I saw him; that was at a literary conference in New York about eight years ago. I always make it a habit to check the list of panelists and keynote speakers before attending one. If he’s on the schedule, I always pass. But that time, he’d been a late add and I’d missed the announcement. I’d been standing with a group of friends in the lobby of a hotel in Times Square when a commotion in the distance caught our attention. A wave of energy rippled through the crowd and my father appeared, surrounded by adoring acolytes and conference administrators. He’d glanced our way, his eyes landing on me for just a second before sliding away and passing through the revolving door and out onto the street.

“I can’t believe he’s still relevant,” one of my friends had said.

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