Page 53 of The Ghostwriter

Mark laughs and says, “Margot was a cute kid. But yeah, most of the girls had a crush on Danny at one point or another.”

“Anyone lucky enough to date him?”

“Here and there. Now and then,” Mark says, and I wonder what that means. “Nobody serious.”

“Why are you so convinced my father was the one who killed them?”

Mark takes a drink and says, “That night at the carnival, I was in the haunted house and saw your father and Poppy arguing. She needed to tell him something, but she didn’t want to talk about it there, so they made a plan to meet back at their place in ten minutes.” Mark looks at me, trying to gauge whether I can see what he’s suggesting. Then he says, “If your father was in the oak grove with your mother and Mr. Stewart, how could he be meeting Poppy?”

“Maybe he didn’t show up,” I say.

“Or maybe that junkie coroner got the time of death wrong.”

“Margot told me the same thing. But I read there was a grand jury and that the coroner was cleared.”

Mark looks at me, his gaze steady and sure. “Grand juries get things wrong all the time.”

“I understand that my father and Danny were fighting a lot in those final days,” I say.

Mark gives a hollow laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

“Enough for him to kill Danny? And then kill his sister?” I look at him, trying to see things from his perspective. Trying to travel back in time through his eyes to that day in 1975.

“I’ll put it this way. We were all taught never to hurt a girl. But from the looks of what I walked into at the haunted house, Vince had no such concern. He had his sister shoved up against a wall. She looked terrified. He looked like a psycho.”

“What were they fighting about?” I ask. Thinking about the abortion. Poppy and Margot’s suspicions about Mr. Stewart. Could Mark have overheard Poppy telling my father and walked up just as my father was reacting to the news? But then why would Poppy agree to meet him back at the house?

“No clue. But that was Vince. Always going off about something. Danny told me Vince had come after him with a knife for no reason, just a few days earlier. Completely lost his shit on him.” Mark shakes his head. “It’s my fault Danny went back to that house. I told him about their fight, and…” He trails off, remembering. “He got real quiet. Then he told me he had something to do, and he’d be right back.”

I think about everything Margot told me and about my father’s night terror, searching for a missing knife in a place no one would ever think to look for it. Of how he told me Poppy had been following Danny, describing Danny as volatile and dangerous, and yet Poppy’s home movies showthe opposite. They’re filled with clips of my father. Not just of him sneaking out, but charging at Poppy as she filmed, anger on his face, spit flying from his mouth. There was even a clip of my parents, silently fighting in the backyard. My mother, scared and withdrawn, my father pushing into her space. Causing her to step back further.

I pull out my phone and open up the photo of the graffiti I found on Poppy’s closet wall.Someday soon, you’ll be dead.“I think my father wrote that inside Poppy’s closet.”

Mark nods. “Yeah, I totally believe he’d say that to her.”

“So your theory is that Poppy was the target, that my father was angry with her, hurt her, and Danny got in the middle of it?”

“Your father was angry at everyone. But yeah. If things got physical back at the house and Danny walked in on that, there’s no way Danny wouldn’t have intervened,” Mark says.

“Did you tell the police?” I ask.

“Of course I did,” he says. “But I was a kid. They didn’t give a shit about what I had to say. And Vince had that alibi, so what I told them went nowhere.” Mark taps the table in front of him with his finger, as if trying to drill his words into me. “I know what I saw. I know what I heard. Your father went back to that house angry at his sister, and my best friend died trying to protect her.”

His voice is laced with emotion, of unshed tears and nearly fifty years of frustration.

“Maybe my father changed his mind,” I say. “Or got sidetracked by that argument with my mother.”

Mark gives me a hard stare and says, “You asked me what I thought. That’s what I think.”

“What about that teacher, Mr. Stewart?” I ask, thinking of the abortion rumors. Of teenage Margot and Poppy suspecting the baby might have been his. “I hear my father was pretty jealous of the time my mother spent with him. Was he right to be worried?”

Mark shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “Nah. Mr. Stewart wasn’t that kind of a guy. Sure, he pushed boundaries. He’d be crucified in today’s world, but he had a girlfriend.” He looks thoughtful, trying to grab the name. “Amanda? Amelia? I can’t remember. Believe me, girls tried to get together with him, but they all got nowhere.”

“Why would he get crucified now?”

Mark shrugs. “He was a young guy who understood what it was like to be a teenager in a small town. He’d buy beer and keep it in the fridge on his back porch. He knew Danny and I would sneak over and steal it, but he didn’t care. He used to sell a little weed now and then, but only to the older kids. And he’d throw a big party the final week of school,” Mark says. “There must have been at least a hundred kids there that last year.” He gives a hollow laugh. “Different times.”

He takes another drink, emptying his glass, then slides it onto the table, away from him. Signaling the end of our conversation. He tosses a couple dollars next to his empty glass and says, “You did the right thing to come home—for yourself, not for your father. It’s an awful thing to go through life feeling as if there had been more to say to someone.” He pauses, as if considering his next words. “But I’m not sure you going around asking questions about what happened in 1975 is a good idea. Danny’s gone. Poppy is gone. You should just leave them where they are and move on. Very rarely do people like what they find when they go digging into the past.”

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