Page 30 of The Ghostwriter

May 2, 1975

It’s long past dark when Mr. Stewart’s car pulls up at the curb. From the front porch, I can see Lydia in the passenger seat, the lights from the dashboard illuminating her features. I pull myself into a tighter ball, trying not to move. I don’t want to talk to Mr. Stewart; I want to talk to Lydia.

When she reaches the porch, Mr. Stewart’s car pulls away, the rumble of his engine fading. Lydia is digging in her purse for her keys when I emerge from where I’ve been hiding.

“Where have you been?” I hate how angry my voice sounds. How hurt. But I feel like I’m losing her. She’s pulling away, and in my panic all I know how to do is hold on tighter.

Lydia jumps at the sound of my voice. “You scared me. How long have you been here?”

“Where have you been?” I ask again.

She looks over her shoulder, as if Mr. Stewart might still be there to tell her what to say. “Training,” she says.

I gesture at her blue jeans and close-fitting top. “Wearing that?”

“My gear is in my duffel bag. I must have left it in his car.”

She’s lying. I can see it in her expression. I step closer, fighting to keep my tone conversational. “I can go get it for you. It’ll be no trouble for me to go home, walk next door, and ask him for it.”

Lydia closes her eyes. “Vince,” she says. “Can we just go inside? I’m exhausted and it’s cold out here.”

I step aside, allowing her to unlock the door. We enter the dark living room, with its faded brown couch and black-and-white television, magazines strewn over the coffee table, the scent of her mother’s perfume still lingering in the air. In the corner is a dining room table positioned under a dusty chandelier, and Lydia flips the switch on, illuminating the surface with a couple empty wineglasses and some unopened mail. At the center is a note that Lydia reads, then hands to me.Hope you had a good training session with Mr. Stewart. I left some tuna casserole on the counter for you. Don’t wait up for me. Love, Mom

“She also believed you were studying with Dawn when really you were with me in Ventura seeing Pink Floyd. Your mother isn’t exactly a lie detector.”

“And you are?” she asks.

“I know when something doesn’t add up. I know you weren’t at the track because I went there looking for you.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “We went to the city college so I could run on a real track, not that dusty circle we have at the high school.”

I’ve seen Lydia after a hard workout, many times. She’s always flushed, energized. Not weak and hollowed out, as if her stomach hurts. Tonight she looks pale. Sick. “What are you not telling me?” I finally ask. “Did Mr. Stewart do something to you?”

“God no!” she shouts. “He’s the only adult who ever gave a shit aboutme. He’s the only one around here who believes I can grow up to be something more than a whore like my mother.”

“I believe in you,” I say. Hurt that I have to say it out loud.

“You want me to stay here after high school. Marry you. Have kids.” She chokes on the words, perhaps the idea too repulsive to consider. “I want to go places. Be someone. Mr. Stewart is helping me do that.”

“I’ll have to think of a way to thank him,” I say. Then I turn and walk through the still-open door, not bothering to close it behind me.

Down the steps in three strides, across the tiny patch of grass in four. I’m grateful for the dark so no one can see me swallowing back tears. See my clenched fists, my nails digging into the palms of my hands, tiny half-moons that will still be visible in the morning.

I cut across the yard at the corner, fighting the urge to look back, to see if she’s following me. Or at the very least standing in the doorway, watching me go. I break into a slow jog, only wanting to be home until I remember who my new neighbor is.

I’m losing her to Mr. Stewart. Fucking hell.

At least it’s not Danny.

Chapter 13

It’s been nearly a week since I emailed Calder from my father’s account, but now that I’ve entered into a dialogue with him, I’m unable to step away. How often do you have the chance to speak with someone you despise under the pretense of being someone else?

I woke the following morning to a response from him.

I can do for you what I did for Mac Murray.

However, I was only interested in one thing—how Calder came to be pitching for a book no one was supposed to know about. I asked:

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