Page 52 of The Ghostwriter

Neil’s face comes onto the screen and he’s smiling. “Olivia, we’ve all had a chance to read the new chapter and we wanted to tell you we loved it.”

Nicole grins, but I fight a tightening in my chest. “I’m really glad to hear that,” I say. “But I’m actually going to have to pull that chapter.”

A shadow passes across Neil’s face, and I push on, hoping my explanation will be compelling enough for him to want to see the revision. “I’ve come across some information that renders that chapter incorrect, as itwas told to me by Mr. Taylor,” I say. “In his retelling, it was Danny who’d killed the neighbor’s cat and buried it. But I’ve recently discovered that it was Mr. Taylor himself who’d done that.”

A murmur passes through the team, their faces showing intrigue, shock, excitement. “I can rewrite it pretty easily,” I continue. “The scene itself happened as he described it to me.”

Neil finally speaks, his voice tight. “What’s your source material for the change?” he asks.

“Poppy was an aspiring filmmaker. Mr. Taylor told me about how she’d gotten a Super 8 camera for her last birthday and spent those final months filming everything and everyone,” I tell them. “He still has some of her old reels.”

“There are movies?” Neil asks, his tone lifting. Hungry.

“A few, yes,” I tell him. “But there’s no sound.”

Excitement ripples through the room. I hear the wordsexclusive web content. Tie-ins.

I hurry to explain. “On one of the reels is a clip of young Vincent with a shovel, burying a dead cat.” Neil’s eyes nearly sparkle at the idea of something so dark and sinister at his fingertips. “But that’s not the story he’s told me,” I continue. “It’s been tricky, navigating his memories without upsetting him. He seems to truly believe that it was Danny who buried the cat, and I have to be careful not to push him too hard. But there is definitive proof that it was Vincent.”

“Would you be able to send the movies to us?” Neil asks.

“I’ll ask Mr. Taylor,” I tell them. “This was his sister, remember. His brother. He wasn’t aware of the existence of these reels either, so I want to be respectful.”

But the truth is, I’m the one who is hesitating. I’m not too eager to share them until I’m certain what they reveal.

“Go ahead and rewrite that chapter and send it over,” Neil says, before signing off.

When they’re gone, Nicole asks, “If he didn’t know about the film reels, how did you come across them?”

I realize my mistake and quickly formulate a lie, substituting the diary for the films. “He gave me some boxes to look through. Stuff packed up from the house long ago that he never had the heart to throw away. Most of it was junk, but some of Poppy’s things were in one of them—old folders, schoolwork, and these movies.”

“Wow,” she says. “That’s a lucky break.”

All these years, I’ve thought the story I told people about my family was harmless. But now I can see that I’m no different from my father, omitting everything that feels painful or complicated. I’m beginning to realize that once you lie about your past, you wall yourself off from the present. From the people who care about you. And now that I’m tasked with tunneling through my father’s lies—hardened and calcified by time—I wonder who will stick around to tunnel through my walls and find me.

Not Tom.

***

Mark Randall looks older, his gray hair cropped close to his head, and he wears khaki pants and a light-green collared shirt. But he still maintains an air of authority, and I feel as if he’s caught me doing something I’m not supposed to be doing.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” I say. We’re sitting in the restaurant of the local country club, a large, airy room that overlooks the golf course, filled with dark wood and vintage photographs of golfers on the wall.

“I’m not sure what you’re hoping I can tell you,” he says.

“I’m guessing you’ve heard that my father is sick, that he’s nearing the end of his life.” He nods and I continue. “I have questions about those months leading up to the murders. I want to know what really happenedto my family.” I bow my head and look at my hands in my lap, wishing again I could take notes or record the conversation. But that’s what a writer would do, not a daughter seeking answers.

A server comes and takes our drink order—iced tea for me, a sparkling water for him. I remember that Jack said his dad has been sober for nearly twenty years, and I wonder how sharp his memories of that day are, or whether they’ve been softened and marinated by years of alcohol abuse.

“What does he have?” he asks.

“Lewy body dementia,” I tell him. “Basically, he’s losing control of his mind and his body.”

Mark winces. “I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I’m not.” He looks out the giant plate-glass window and onto the course. In the distance, a foursome finishes up and loads their bags into their white golf cart.

The server returns with our drinks, and we each smile our thanks, dismissing her.

“Tell me about Danny,” I say. “Did he have a lot of girlfriends? Margot tells me she had quite a crush on him.”

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