Page 78 of The Ghostwriter

“Later,” she’d promised me.

But first I need to find out what Poppy knows. She’d finally kicked me out of her room yesterday, claiming there wasn’t enough space for the both of us, but I could tell it was something else. The way she wouldn’t meet my gaze when she spoke, busying herself with folding clothes. Making her bed. Things Poppy never did on her own.

I feel pulled in opposite directions. I need Lydia to tell me the fucking truth. But I also need to know what, exactly, Danny had told Poppy. Why Poppy had said,You have to tell,before bursting out of the room she’d been in with Danny and looking at me like she knew something I didn’t. What her drunken warning had been about. And I need to know before I talk to Lydia again, because I’m not sure she’ll tell me the truth.

Loud music plays from hidden speakers, punctuated with recorded screams, and every turn of the cheaply constructed wooden structure brings some new surprise, its insides partitioned into several narrow paths that wind back and forth in order to give people more opportunitiesto be scared. A zombie with blood dripping down his chin that pops up from behind a barrel. A straw-stuffed body suspended from a wire, flying down from above, a mummy rising from a coffin, its bandages peeling away to reveal decomposing flesh. In all the years of the carnival, no one has ever thought how stupid it is to have a haunted house at a carnival held in June.

I find a shortcut and tuck myself in a corner near the exit to wait for Poppy, Danny’s taunting words still pulsing through me.It’s common knowledge that the guy who takes a girl to get an abortion is usually the father.That had been what had catapulted me off my bed, hands outstretched, reaching for Danny’s neck. Trying to strangle those words out of him, even though they’d been living inside of me since I saw Lydia and Mr. Stewart together at the Pink Floyd concert. The way he put his hand on her lower back, guiding her. The concern on his face. How close they stood to each other, as if they shared a secret. The light from his dashboard illuminating his face when he dropped her off after taking her to some clinic in Ventura or Bakersfield. Had he been apologizing? Telling her it could never happen again? Insisting that it was over between them, or telling her it was just beginning?

Poppy appears and I grab her, pulling her into my corner, blocking her with my body so she can’t slip away. “You scared the crap out of me, Vince. What are you doing?”

I tighten my grip on her arm and say, “Tell me what you and Danny were fighting about.”

Poppy takes a step toward the exit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I jerk her back and she winces. “Don’t lie to me.”

She shakes her head and says, “This isn’t your problem.”

“It is my problem. It involves me too.”

Surprise splashes across her face and then it crumbles, tears filling her eyes. Voices of people entering the haunted house float back to usover the recorded sound of a woman screaming from the speakers every thirty seconds.

I’m done waiting. Done with being the only person who doesn’t know the truth. I shove her, pinning her against the wall. Her eyes widen, terrified. Somewhere inside of me, I know I don’t need to do it this way. I know my sister will tell me what I need to know. But I can no longer separate my rage at what Lydia has done and my frustration that everyone seems to know except me. It has bled out into the world, seeping into every relationship. Every thought. Every moment.

“You’re hurting me,” she says, her voice cracking over the words.

“Then tell me,” I say.

“Meet me back at the house in ten minutes,” she says. “We can talk there.”

Just then, I notice Mark Randall. I release Poppy and she takes a step away from me, swiping tears from her eyes.

Mark glances at us and says to me, “Leave your sister alone, or I’ll tell Danny.”

I try to tamp down my anger, not wanting to get sidetracked with Mark. “Mind your own fucking business,” I tell him.

Mark shakes his head. “It’s your funeral, psycho.” Then he pushes through the exit, and Poppy and I are alone again.

“Ten minutes,” I say to her. Then I, too, pass through the door and out into the open, leaving Poppy behind.

I walk past Margot, no doubt waiting for Poppy to exit, and make my way toward where Lydia stands, her eyes bloodshot. I wish I could cry. Let all my anger, hurt, and humiliation out in one long wail. Instead, it sits like a hot stone inside of me, and I’m terrified it will burn me up from the inside out.

“I have to go back to the house for a minute,” I tell her.

“What? Why?”

“Apparently, Danny told Poppy about your abortion, and I need to go deal with that before the whole town knows.”

Lydia reaches out as if to take my hand, but I take a step away from her and her hand drops again. “What did he tell her?”

“I assume the same thing he told me,” I say, my anger rising up again at the memory. “That Mr. Stewart got you pregnant and then took you for an abortion.”

Lydia looks panicked. “He told you that?”

“In so many words, yes.”

She closes her eyes as if she’s suddenly exhausted. “Just walk me to the rocks. I can explain everything on the way. Please.” Her expression is desperate. “Then you can go deal with Poppy.”

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