Page 46 of The Ghostwriter

I open my laptop again, this time searching for a copy of the contract, reading through the terms, my pulse quickening as I see the loophole.

As a ghostwriter, it’s never my name on the cover, never my photo on the book jacket. Olivia Dumont is simply the name on the contract and one of the many people thanked in the acknowledgments.

But to the people in Ojai, the ones I grew up with, the ones who knew my parents—and Danny and Poppy—Olivia Dumont doesn’t exist. To them, I’m Olivia Taylor. And the contract doesn’t say anything about an estranged daughter coming home at the end of her father’s life, looking for answers. Tom had been right. A solution has appeared that will allow me to satisfy everyone.

I stand and start to pace, dialing his number. Hoping he’ll pick up so I can tell him. Not the specifics of what I’ve figured out, just that he was right. The room is stuffy, so I open the door, hoping for some air to blow through, though I’m still seeing my father’s scrawny teenage back, digging the hole. Burying that dead cat.

“I figured it out,” I tell him. Everything will now fall into place. I can talk to the people I need to, write the memoir based on their recollections alongside my father’s, and no one will be the wiser. And then I can go home.

“Hold on,” he says. “I need to go somewhere quieter.” The noise behind him sounds like jackhammering and I picture him on a job site, with his button-down shirt tucked into his Levi’s and work boots peeking out the bottom. With a thunk of a car door, the sound disappears, and he says, “Now say again?”

I walk back to the desk where I still have my contract pulled up and say, “I found a loophole that will allow me to adhere to all of the agreements I’ve made—with my subject as well as with the publisher.” Relief rushes through me, that I might be able to pull this off.

From the base of the stairs, Alma calls up through the open door. “Olivia, your father would like a word.” I freeze, praying Tom didn’t hear what she just said. But I can tell from the sharp inhalation on the other end of the phone that I’m not that lucky.

“Your father?” he says, his voice carrying the low timbre it gets when he’s angry.

Alma appears at the top of the stairs to speak again, but I hold my hand up, silencing her. She shrugs and disappears. “I can explain,” I say, my mind quickly sifting through my options, which are few.

“You told me your father is dead,” he says.

I consider doubling down on the lie, of trying to create a godfather figure of some sort, but I know how much worse that would make things. “I know that’s what I told you,” I say. “The truth is complicated, and not something I’ve shared with anyone.” I consider telling him my father is dying, that I’ve been called home to help, but bringing that up now feels like a flimsy attempt to garner sympathy.

“So you lied to me.” In those words, in that tone, I hear the betrayal, sharp and painful. The one thing Tom has always insisted on, I’ve violated. It doesn’t matter that I told him the lie before I knew how much I would grow to love him. I can see now that it won’t matter to him that it’s a story I tell everyone, that I’m not deceiving him alone. “And so the book?” he asks. “Is that also a lie? All the struggles you’ve been having with it, stringing me along making me think you’re working when you’re…what? Visiting your father who actually didn’t die of a heart attack in the mid-nineties?”

“That’s not what this is,” I start, but he interrupts me.

“I think this is where I say goodbye.” His voice is calm, but sad.

“Wait, what?” I ask, panic coursing through me. “Tom.”

I think of how I was able to tell Jack about the job. About my father. How I spoke about my mother with him and Matt. And now, I’m completely logjammed. “I am working on a book. That’s true.” Here is mychance to tell him. About my father. The murders. The book that I just figured out how I can actually write.

But the phone beeps in my ear. Tom has already hung up.

I dial his number, but he sends it straight to voicemail. I wait a few minutes, then try again. Voicemail. I text him.Please, let’s talk about this.I start to bargain with the universe.If he takes my call, I’ll tell him everything.All of it. My father, his career, and the mystery around the deaths of Poppy and Danny. I will violate the contract and tell Tom why I’m here and what I’m working on. I text him again.I’ll tell you what you want to know. Everything. Please.I stare at my phone, waiting for a response, which comes almost immediately.

I told you at the beginning that lying is a nonstarter for me. You lied about your family. You lied about a job. I can’t be with someone I don’t trust.

I spend the next two days alternately crying, begging Tom to take my calls through texts and voicemails, and sleeping. I don’t eat. I don’t write. I tell Alma to let my father know I have to take care of some personal business and that I can’t be disturbed.

But a fifth email from Nicole on day three demanding a check-in finally pulls me out. Regardless of my personal life, I have to finish this job or John Calder will finish it for me. On day two, I consider driving back to Los Angeles and confronting him in person. But the idea of another rejection terrifies me, and I know that Tom isn’t one to change his mind once a decision has been made.

I stare at Tom’s last message, feeling as if I’m standing on a deserted island, watching the rescue boat depart without me. Knowing no matter how long I scream and wave my arms, it’s too late. It’s not turning back for me.

Chapter 22

Margot Gibson was Poppy’s best friend. The one Poppy was supposed to meet at the Tilt-A-Whirl after a quick trip home to grab her sweater. The one who’d waited a half hour and then figured she’d misunderstood. The one who’d spent the rest of the carnival looking for her best friend among the crowds, until news had finally filtered back to her about what had happened. Where Poppy had been found.

Honestly, it’s a miracle Margot didn’t go to the house and find them herself. Or, worse, become a third victim.

I’d looked up the basics about her. Public records searches and social media show that she’s owned Ojai Valley Books since 2016 after retiring from her job as a paralegal for a local attorney. When I was younger, I used to see her every now and then, my kid-radar picking up on the whispers of the adults.Poppy’s best friend. Such a tragedy.But she’d never spoken to me or acted as if she knew who I was.

I find the bookstore on the eastern stretch of Ojai Avenue in what used to be a video rental store, gold lettering over the plate-glass windows framing a colorful display of books.

Inside, the shelves are painted a light blue and line three walls. The fourth is taken up by a long counter and a small alcove where I imagine they set up chairs for author events. Lower, free-standing shelves are arranged throughout the shop, creating a thoughtful maze that carries shoppers deeper into the store.

“Be right out,” a voice calls from the back.

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