Page 58 of The Ghostwriter

“If he did it, he should have gone to jail,” I say. “Spent the rest of his life behind bars.”

Jack laughs, but he’s not really smiling. “You’re kidding, right? He’s a rich white man. I highly doubt it would have been the rest of his life.” In a quieter voice, he continues. “Now let’s say you find out he didn’t do it. He’s irrefutably innocent. Then what?”

This is what’s been nagging at me ever since I left the coffee shop. The weight that’s been hanging around my neck, threatening to choke me. “Then he spent decades being the villain in other people’s stories. And I went along with it.”

“But you’re here now.”

I watch a chipmunk scurry across the brush in front of us and disappear under another log. “Everything he’s told me is a half-truth. He’s been spinning Danny as this cruel, dangerous person when the truth is something totally different.”

Jack’s voice is gentle. “Then you need to ask yourself why this is the story he wants to tell.”

Poppy

June 1, 1975

About a week ago, before his huge fight with Danny, Vince had started another treasure hunt with me, perhaps an attempt to get me to forget about how angry he was when I came across him burying Ricky Ricardo in the oak grove. Normally I’d have been excited to start a new one, but this time the theme wasdark places,and every clue has felt like a trap. A reason to get me alone in a dark place where anything might happen. I couldn’t stop thinking about that hole. About poor Ricky Ricardo in a dark place of his own, dead and buried where no one will find him. The way Vince had turned on me, shoving me to the ground. The fights he’s been having with Lydia. The way he’d attacked Danny just two days ago.Dark places.We did metaphors this year in English, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this is one.

***

But our treasure hunts haven’t always been this way. They started two years ago on my twelfth birthday. My mother had gotten me that stupid diary. Danny got me some sparkly barrettes, and Vince made me a treasure hunt.

Where do you go when your head is both wet and aching?

You don’t have to go to the best room in the house to find the top place overall.

A princess would have noticed this weeks ago.

Clues leading me around the house, to the hall closet, the attic, and finally under my bed where a pair of wristbands—the same ones Chris Evert wore—were hidden.

After that, treasure hunts became our thing. Not just for birthdays, but for everyday things as well. Prizes might be a package of Kit Kats Vince wanted to give me from his Halloween bag. A baseball I found at the playground, scuffed with use. A snow cone in the freezer. It’s how we communicated with each other, little notes and messages tucked into a binder, or a pair of shoes, or between my pillow and my bedsheet. Eventually, the game shifted to its current version with spoken clues. Vince poking his head into my room and saying, “Sugar and spice, and everything nice, but Danny will never eat this,” which would have me jumping up from my homework and racing toward the pantry where I’d find a clue wrapped around the peanut butter jar.

Which is why it’s confusing for me to be playing the game so carefully now. Like walking on broken glass, watching every step, ever vigilant to the invisible shard that will stab you.

***

I figured after his fight with Danny, Vince would have dropped the game. Too upset to continue. But tonight he drops another hint while we’re at the bathroom sink brushing our teeth.

“This is my favorite time of year,” I say, hoping to keep things light and then get out of here. “School’s pretty much over, aside from a few tests. The weather is warmer, and you can feel summer coming on.”

Vince says, “My favorite time of year is when Mom gets out the box of Christmas decorations.”

Our eyes meet in the mirror and hold, his eyebrows raised just a fraction of an inch.

I carefully spit and rinse, returning my toothbrush to the cup, and even though I’m in my pajamas, I walk into the kitchen, opening the door that leads to the garage.

But I hesitate. Instead of my father’s car, the space is filled with junk my mother can’t bear to part with, and the Christmas box is all the way on the other side. I’d have to cross the dusty floor, navigate around spiderwebs and I don’t even want to think what else. I flip the switch, but the bulb gives a loud pop and then darkness.

“What are you doing?” Danny asks from behind me. He stands at the counter, drinking an Orange Crush.

I try to gauge his mood. If he is in a good one, he might be willing to help. But it’s just as likely he would wait until I’m across the garage before closing and locking the door behind me.

So I step back into the kitchen. “I thought I heard a voice in there.”

Danny wiggles his fingers in front of me, too close to my face, and says, “Creepy.”

Over his shoulder, I see Vince lingering in the hallway, his expression unreadable. I look back and forth between my two older brothers and decide the clue can wait.

The following morning I’m up before either of them to sneak into the garage, pulling down the Christmas box. Taped to one of the red balls we hang on our tree is the clue.You’ll find your prize in the…To discover that last word, I have to find one more clue. The game is drawing to a close.

---