Page 45 of The Ghostwriter

And then the next one:

Something’s on that film that Vince doesn’t want me to see. March #1, Clip #3.

I label my notebook with the entry and the clip, then download it from the list of attachments, fast-forwarding until I get to the third clip. It’s a party. Kids gathered around a bonfire, flames dancing into the dark sky. Poppy’s camera pans in close to the flames, then eases out, the frame growing larger, pulling in more figures: shadowy couples making out, three girls dancing in a circle, their arms held above their heads. My imagination fills in the soundtrack—maybe Fleetwood Mac or Led Zeppelin—the high-pitched laughter of the girls, the low voices of boys growing into men. It’s shadowy and dark, and I pause the frame everyfew seconds, trying to see what Poppy wants me to see. But it’s just kids at a party. On the far left side of the screen, the figure of a man I can’t quite make out—an older brother? Someone’s dad?—is picking up empty soda cans and dropping them into a garbage bag. People I don’t recognize, teenagers mugging for Poppy’s camera.

I rewind and watch again. The same dancing girls. The same flames reaching toward the sky. The same man cleaning up. I make a note to see if I can find an old yearbook, to match some of these faces with names and then go backward, trying to figure out if any of them were relevant at the time. Whether any of them knew my mother. Perhaps one of them was the father of her baby. There aren’t any more references to the clips on the March reels, so I skip ahead to the next reference in May.

May 10: I don’t even know who he is anymore. May #1, Clip #7.

I’m barely two seconds in when I sit forward in my chair, a zip of recognition passing through me. Because it feels familiar, as if I’ve seen it before. The camera pans through the wooded area near my father’s house, and Poppy seems to be walking slowly. In the distance, I can make out a figure, hunched over a shovel. Digging. My mind fills in the gaps, just the way my father described this scene to me. The sound of the leaves crunching, the smell of damp soil, the steady thump of the shovel. This is what I’ve needed. Corroboration of my father’s stories. Confirmation that he’s been telling me the truth. He hadn’t mentioned that Poppy had been with him when he’d come across Danny burying the neighbor’s cat. Or perhaps my father had swiped the camera and filmed this himself.

Either way, I stare at the screen, watching it unfold, exactly as he described it. The camera zooms in as close as possible, and I can make out the bloody bundle that must have been the cat. But it’s the boy whocatches my attention. That has me slamming my thumb down on the space bar to pause the video.

Because it’s not Danny burying the cat.

It’s my father.

Poppy

May 10, 1975

I move through the trees of the oak grove, shadows cascading around me, the late afternoon sun too low to poke through the branches that arc overhead. I’m still angry about what Margot said.I mean, it’s hard, but it happens. Maybe he’ll come back. Missing cats often turn up after a week or so—hungry, but okay.

I pause by a large stump, sounds other than my footsteps breaking through my thoughts. Beneath the usual noise of the grove—the wind brushing the tops of the trees, the chirp and fluttering of birds and critters—is a dullthunk-thunk-thunkcoming from somewhere just beyond me. I glance toward the high school, knowing in a few weeks it will be overrun with people setting up for the summer carnival, but it’s too early now.

I turn toward the noise and start slowly, creeping from tree to tree, keeping my camera low, allowing me to film and still see where I’m going.I’m not afraid—I’ve spent enough time in here to know exactly where I am, how to get out quickly if I need to—but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be careful.

I pause again to listen. Beneath the steady noise there’s something ragged, like heavy breathing.

I’m about ten yards away when I see him. Vincent, his back to me, digging a hole in the ground next to one of the large boulders that make up the Rocks—a place kids like to go to get high or drunk. I creep forward, careful not to make a sound, zooming the camera in as close as it’ll go.

His shovel strokes are steady; however, it sounds like he’s crying. Above us, a patch of blue sky is dusted with late afternoon light, shimmering down upon the boulder crusted with moss. Next to the hole is what looks like a bundle of rags. “Vince?” I say, keeping my voice low, not wanting to startle him.

He spins around, fear clear in his expression. Tear tracks trace down his cheeks, cutting a dusty path toward his chin. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and says, “You don’t want to be here.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, lowering the camera and turning it off. “What are you doing?”

Vincent glances down at the bundle on the ground next to him and nudges it with his foot into the hole. “Go home, Poppy.” I feel a sadness descend. He seems so unreachable lately—angry and volatile—and I wonder if he knows about Lydia.

I step closer, until I’m standing in front of him and my gaze travels toward the hole. Something has been wrapped inside Vince’s yellow Grateful Dead T-shirt now splotched red. A white paw crusted with blood hangs out of the side. Vincent kicks the rest of it into the hole when he catches me looking.

A sick fear churns inside of me, and I look over my shoulder, as if expecting someone to catch us here. “Is that…” I trail off, unable to finish my sentence. I’d stapled the signs on telephone poles and handed themout in town. I feel the air rush out of me, my legs suddenly weak. I know, without having to be told, what has happened to Mr. Stewart’s cat.

I stare at Vincent, our eyes locked in on each other, neither of us speaking. He lunges forward suddenly, as if to grab me, but instead he gives me a hard shove and I fly backward, hitting the ground hard. I hold my camera against my chest, protecting it from the fall. “Get the fuck out of here!” he yells. He steps forward as if he’s going to hit me, and I scurry sideways on my backside, my feet scrambling for purchase. I stumble more as I stand, backing away from him, tears making my vision blurry. “What is wrong with you?” I ask.

His chest heaves, his fists clench. I’ve only ever seen this expression on his face when he’s looking at Danny.

“For the last time, go home.”

I walk backward, unable to take my eyes off my brother, the hole, the dead cat inside. It isn’t until I bump into a tree that I turn and run.

Chapter 21

I close my laptop and sit, my mind reeling through options—confront my father? Call the publisher and explain that I can’t do this job because the subject is actively trying to mislead me? But a quieter thought breaks through the chaos, reminding me that it’s possible my father’s illness has made it so that he really believes it was Danny who killed and buried the cat. One truth remains—I cannot write this book without talking to other people. It’s not just my own principles as a ghostwriter. I’ve seen what can happen when a book isn’t fact-checked. When it comes out later that events have been embellished or made up completely. It tanks the book and destroys the ghostwriter’s credibility. I’m already on the verge of becoming obsolete; I can’t afford a mistake like that.

And then another thought slams into me. I’m going to have to pull the chapter I’ve already submitted, describing Danny burying the cat. This is why I don’t like sending chapters before a book is done. Things change, memories shift, and I can’t afford to look like I’ve lost control of this project.

I’m considering calling Nicole, not just to tell her I need to pullthat chapter, but to ask again what I’d asked after that first Zoom with Monarch—what would happen if I spoke to people about the book on background—when an idea occurs to me. A way for me to get what I need.

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