Page 55 of The Ghostwriter

Vince shakes his head and doesn’t answer.

“Is this about Lydia?” I ask.

His gaze shoots up at me, eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that?”

I hold my hands up in front of me, as if I have nothing to hide. I saw what he’d done to Danny, and I want no part of it. “No reason,” I say. “But I can’t think of anything else that would make you that mad.” There’s no way I’m going to tell him I know about Lydia’s abortion. Or that it wasn’t his baby.

Vince settles onto the floor, his back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

“If you want to talk about it, you can,” I say.

“Shut up, Poppy.”

“This is my room. I don’t have to shut up if I don’t want to.”

He ignores me, too tired to respond. I stare at him, wondering how long he plans to sleep on my floor. I think again of Ricky Ricardo and wonder what he might do to me.

Next door, Danny has put on his new Aerosmith record, setting the needle on the sixth track, “Sweet Emotion.” We listen to the quiet way it starts, to the escalation of the guitar. Suddenly the volume shoots up when Steven Tyler sings the line about a girlfriend who’s a liar.

“I hate him,” Vince says. “I wish he was dead.”

Chapter 25

I see the email by accident. It’s been three weeks since I last checked, distracted with all I’ve uncovered—from the writing on the wall and the discovery of the movies to my conversations with Margot and Mark. I’ve been in the zone and have relegated Calder to the back of my mind. But after I close a couple tabs, my father’s in-box appears and there is Calder’s response.

Olivia Dumont is a hack. Her brand of feel-good story is a fad the industry is already tired of reading.

I’ve had enough. I don’t know what I thought I’d learn. I already know that someone within Monarch has told him about the book; I already know he hates women like me. I don’t need to engage with him anymore.

I type:The book is under contract and I’m happy with its progress. I’m afraid that’s where we need to leave things.

I hit Send, and then, before I can change my mind, I log out and closethe window. Then I head into the empty house, up the stairs to my father’s computer, and toggle the screen awake again. I click over to his email and click on settings, requesting a new password. After I enter the old one, the computer suggests a very long and complicated string of letters and I quickly accept it, knowing it’ll be saved on his computer but that there’s no way I could ever remember it.

It’s done. I’m done. I check the time and head toward my car. I’ve got a long drive to Ventura.

***

An hour later, I’m situated in a coffee shop on Laurel Street, waiting to see a man who’d been a deputy DA at the time of the grand jury in 1993. The lead prosecutor, the DA himself, died about five years ago, but Charles Monahan had been his second chair. I’d stayed up nearly all night reading everything I could get my hands on about the coroner. Which of his cases had been overturned. What evidence they had to exclude. Anything that would help me see whether something had been overlooked.

My father is clearly lying to me, which makes me wonder if he didn’t kill them both after all. I feel as though an anvil has been lodged in my chest. A desire for answers weighing heavy on top of the sickening sense that once I know something, I can never unknow it. And the fear that whatever I learn next might change everything I believe to be true.

After he lied to me about that fight with Danny, I’ve been avoiding my father, once again putting him off with excuses I’m sure he can see through. Claiming to have rewrites on the drafted chapters I’ve submitted so far. “Best for me to nail down what Neil wants now before we move on,” I told him. My thoughts are tangled around one question: To whom—or what—do I owe my loyalty? To my father? To Danny and Poppy? Or to my own floundering career?

Now I sit near the back wall, watching the door, and wave when I see Charles enter.

“Ms. Taylor?” he says when he approaches.

I stand and shake his hand. “Thanks so much for meeting with me, Mr. Monahan,” I tell him.

“Please, call me Charlie.”

I slide the coffee I’d bought for him across the table, and he takes an appreciative sip. “So you have some questions about your aunt and uncle’s case.”

“I have questions about my father’s alibi,” I tell him. “My father is ill, and I feel like the opportunity for answers is shrinking.”

Charlie nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s understandable, but I’m not really sure there’s anything I can tell you.”

“Can you tell me why a grand jury was convened? What evidence was there?”

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