Page 6 of The Ghostwriter

My father shakes his head. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I haven’t hired you to write a book; I’ve hired you to fix the one that already exists.”

“But what if I have to rewrite something?”

“I know how to write a book, Olivia.”

“You know how to write a novel,” I clarify. “This is completely different. A book like this has to hang on facts, not fiction.”

“This is a nonnegotiable. No one knows what I know, so they can’t help you anyway. And I’d like to remind you that a breach of contract is probably not something you’d like to explore.” His gaze is hard, and he holds mine, waiting for me to capitulate.

I want to get up and leave. Tell him this isn’t how I work. Or that I’m happy to figure out nondisclosure agreements for the people involved if that would make him feel more comfortable, but the idea of approaching them—Poppy’s best friend, Margot; Danny’s best friend, Mark; my mother—and explaining that my father is writing a book about their shared trauma isn’t something I want to do.

He hands me the stack of legal pads. “I apologize for not typing it.” He waves in the general direction of the mess that now sits on my lap, the edges of the pages limp, some of them stained. “Everything you need is in there,” he says. “All you have to do is transcribe it and clean it up. I thought I could do it myself, but my disease had other plans.” He looks defeated. “This should be easy money for you. I estimate four weeks, tops. Then you can be on your way.”

My unease at the idea of sitting down with my mother for the first time in nearly forty years melts away as I stare at the stack of ruffled pages. I will admit, I’m intensely curious to see what my father has to say about that time. Those events.

“Why do you want to write this book?” I ask. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

My father sighs and looks out the window. “I need the money,” headmits. His voice is quieter as he continues. “The kind of lifestyle I was leading, it gets expensive.”

I think of how many books my father has sold over the course of his career. The size of his advances and film options—seven of his books have made it to the screen. “Are you telling me you’re broke?”

He looks at me again and says, “I’m saying that there isn’t much left. Certainly not enough to pay for my care, which is only going to get more expensive as my condition worsens.”

“What about the house?” I ask. “It’s got to be worth several million at this point.”

He shakes his head. “It needs a new roof. Updated plumbing and electrical. But aside from that, I pulled most of the equity out and spent it.”

“What about other investments? Properties?”

“I never got around to buying any.”

I’m numb. I often imagined how I would hear of my father’s passing. An obituary in theNew York Timeslanding in my in-box? A social media post floating through my feed? I never expected he’d leave me anything, always assuming his money would go to charity. To be honest, I’m not that surprised there’s nothing left.

God, what a pair we make.

“I need this to work, Olivia. But aside from the money, it’s been decades of speculation. Of rumors and innuendo. I realize I played a part in all of that by refusing to speak about it.” He gives me a searching look and says, “No one knew Poppy and Danny the way I did. Not their friends, not even our parents. When I die, they’ll die with me, without ever having gotten to live. This is the least I can do for them.”

I say nothing, knowing this isn’t about my aunt and uncle. It’s about making money and about manipulating me one last time.

Chapter 4

The first thing I do once I’m settled in the guesthouse is googleLewy body dementia. I scan the links until I find a source I can trust.

LBD is a progressive disease with a decline in mental abilities. Affected individuals might have visual hallucinations and changes in attention or their ability to focus. REM disorders are often a precursor. Physical symptoms include loss of smell, dizziness, muscle rigidity and/or tremors, slower movement, and difficulty walking. Life expectancy is typically seven to eight years after symptom onset, although it can be significantly shorter. LBD differs from Alzheimer’s in that there are no defined stages, making LBD more challenging to navigate.

I stare at the screen, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that my vibrant, energetic father could be reduced to something like this. He seemed fine when we spoke. Sharp, aware of his surroundings. And yet,he’s called me here to do something he should have been able to do for himself.

I look around the guesthouse. If this room is any indication, my father has been declining for some time. After our conversation, I’d crossed the courtyard with my bag and what felt like twenty pounds of legal pads, climbed the steep stairs, and fumbled around for the light switch. When I flipped it, the room illuminated in a dim glow from a single fixture overhead, revealing at least fifty bankers boxes crowding the room. They press in on me now, stacked five or six tall, lining the walls of the small space that can’t be more than eight hundred square feet, including an ancient kitchenette that doesn’t look safe to use. In some places, the stacks are two and three boxes deep, and I think again of that awful treasure hunt when I was eight.

I remember the way I’d slowed down as I approached the box sitting on our front step, my name written in unfamiliar script on the lid. My mind immediately leapt to my mother, who still haunted the quiet corners of my dreams, the woman I still expected to return for me someday. I’d stared down at the box, imagining her sneaking into town while I was at school, from wherever she’d been hiding, and leaving me something. My heart set loose in an unsteady rhythm that I no longer tried to contain as my mind chased the possibilities—

A silver bangle bracelet that would remind me of her every time it flashed beneath my sleeve.

A book she’d treasured as a child, inscribed to me.

A scarf she’d knit herself.

Tickets to see Madonna.

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