Page 7 of The Ghostwriter

But when I opened the box and saw the first clue written in my father’s handwriting, I was embarrassed by the ridiculous way my mind went to zebras instead of horses. I unlocked our front door and stepped into the dark interior, window shades drawn tight against the warm Ojai afternoon. I dropped my backpack and the empty box by the door and reread the clue.

The place where we can always find an escape. The bookshelves in the living room, which contained another box with another clue.

Cozy hugs can be found here. The top shelf of my father’s closet, where he kept his sweaters.

I bounced from room to room, earlier thoughts of my mother long forgotten, focused on the hunt. Not knowing whether I’d find something spectacular at the end of it or something mundane. Not caring either way. My father had a gift for creating fun in a life where money was tight and friends were few. No one’s mother allowed them to come over to play after school, since there was never an adult home. The kids in my third-grade class seemed too busy to include me in their after-school activities. Except Jack.

I found the last box under the bathroom sink, the dark space warm and dank. It had a couple holes punched in the top and I held my breath as I opened it carefully.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see the brown fluff in the corner of the box, the hamster I’d been begging my father to get me for months, half-hidden beneath wood shavings. “Hello, little guy,” I said, my voice bouncing off the tile walls of the bathroom and vibrating inside my ears. I stroked his back, so soft I could barely feel it.

The hamster was quiet, and I wiggled my fingers underneath him, noticing that he wasn’t as warm as our classroom hamster, Nibbles. That I couldn’t feel his tiny heartbeat pounding through his chest the way I could when I picked up Nibbles.

I prodded him again with my fingers, panic welling up inside of me, the mirror over the sink reflecting my horror back to me.

I don’t remember what happened after that. Did I throw the box away? Run to the neighbor’s apartment and wait for my father to get home? It’s as if the memory ends with the discovery of a dead hamster in a box.

I pull myself back to the present, then pick up my phone to call Nicole.

“Did you get there okay?” she asks when she answers. “What’s he like?”

I look at the stack of legal pads on the desk in front of me, twisting my finger in the oversize rubber band holding them together and say, “Honestly, he’s not what I expected.”

“In what way?” she asks.

I think about how to answer her, what to say that won’t reveal the truth of my connection to him. “I expected the dynamic man we used to see in the public sphere. Here, he’s just dimmer. Diminished.”

“I guess that’s what old age will do.”

“He’s sick,” I tell her, lowering my voice even though there isn’t anyone around to hear me.

“Oh wow,” she says. “What is it?”

“Lewy body dementia.”

She gives a low whistle. “Isn’t that what Robin Williams had? No wonder they called you in.”

I pull my finger out of the rubber band, letting it snap back against the pages. “There’s something else. It’s not a novel,” I tell her. “It’s a memoir about the murders.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s written the whole thing by hand,” I say, flipping through the pages on top. “On about thirty legal pads. Black ink. It looks like some kind of serial killer manifesto.”

Her voice turns serious. “Do you want me to push for you to get a room at a hotel instead? An Airbnb?”

“It’s fine. He’s fine,” I say. “They’ve got me in the guesthouse. It’s totally separate, with a door that locks. Did you read that email from Neil?”

Neil is the editor assigned to the book, a man notorious for his ruthless red pen. He’d emailed last night, asking that I stay in close contact, reiterating the June deadline.

“I did. Do you need me to intervene? See if we can extend it a bit?”

“Do we have that kind of leverage?” I ask.

“Not sure,” she says. “I’m happy to feel him out if you want.”

I think about how important it is that the publisher has confidence in my ability to not only work with my father, but to meet my deadline. I need this job to be a success so I can get back to elevating the voices I want to elevate. “No,” I tell her. “Let me see what I can do first.”

“Just pick a place and begin,” she suggests. “And cc me on everything. I’m sure if you can get a draft they’re happy with, you can do the copy edits at home.”

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