Page 79 of The Ghostwriter

I look toward the path that leads through the trees and to my house, then back at Lydia, torn. Perhaps it would be better to hear from her first and then go talk to Poppy. After that, maybe I’ll be able to figure out how to move forward, either with or without Lydia. “Fine,” I say.

Chapter 32

I try not to react to my father’s admission, although inside, I’m reeling. Here it is, the piece I’ve been waiting for, and I don’t have time to allow myself to absorb it. I have to keep up a professional facade, to make sure my feelings about what he’s just told me, that everything—the fight with my mother, the alibi, all of it—had been a lie. That my father had been in the house when Danny and Poppy had died. And the only way he could have been there was if he’d played some part in their deaths.

I pull out Poppy’s diary. When my father sees it, he looks surprised. “Where did you get that?” he asks.

“I found it in one of your boxes.” I’ve marked the page with a Post-it, and I flip it open, explaining. “This was why I initially asked you about her films. Because aside from the first entry that talks about Mom’s abortion, the rest referenced reels and clips. As if she wanted to show someone what she was figuring out instead of writing it down. As if she knew it wasn’t safe to do so.”

“Give me that,” my father says.

I hand it over and he holds it in his hand like an ancient artifact. Gently, he strokes the cover with its faded red hearts running around the perimeter and opens it, his finger tracing the jagged edge of the page she cut out.

“Do you know what was on that page?” I ask.

He shakes his head and flips to the first entry. I can see him trying to decipher the words. To make sense of the shapes that were once his livelihood. But he looks up, defeated.

“Can you read it to me?” he asks.

I nod and begin. “I heard a rumor today. That Lydia was pregnant and now…she’s not.”

He closes his eyes as I continue. “Something’s on that film that Vince doesn’t want me to see. March #1, Clip #3.”

His eyes open again, and he asks, “What’s in that clip?”

“I haven’t been able to figure it out, but maybe you can tell me.”

I pull it up and press Play, setting the computer on the desk so my father can see it. The bonfire. Kids laughing. A man picking up cans. The flames climbing high, sparks vanishing in the night sky. My father leans closer to the screen, and I watch him. His jaw flexes but the rest of him is still.

Suddenly his hand darts out, sweeping the computer off his desk, and it crashes onto the floor. “Why are you showing me this?” he yells.

I jump to my feet and scramble backward, out of his reach. My computer is still open, the clip still playing, though a corner of the screen is cracked. I scurry around my father to pick it up as he launches into another tirade. “If you had only stayed home, none of this would have happened. But no! You abandoned me.”

He’s pacing and I clutch my laptop to my chest. “Dad,” I tell him. “It’s me, Olivia.”

“This is your fault, Lydia,” he says, stepping closer. “You were the one who made the choice to go to that party.” Then he turns to the bookshelves and starts throwing books onto the floor.

Alma enters the room at a run, sees the mess, and turns on me. “Go. Get out.”

“I don’t know what happened,” I tell her.

“It doesn’t matter. I need you to leave.” To my father she says, “It’s okay, Vincent. I’m here. We can figure it out together.”

But her words do nothing to calm him down. He picks up a book and throws it at me, missing my head by inches. Even Alma has to step back. Then he turns toward the window, smashing his hand through it.

Alma leaps forward and pulls him back. Blood is pouring from his palm. “Go get a towel,” she orders.

I race to the bathroom and return with the towel, and she tries to wrap it around my father’s hand, but he’s still thrashing. She says, “Call 911. Tell them we need an ambulance for a cognitively impaired patient who requires sedation. Tell them he’s punched a window and is bleeding heavily.”

When I hesitate, she points toward the door. “Go.”

***

The paramedics arrive and manage to sedate my father, bandaging his hand to stop the flow of blood. Then they load him onto the ambulance, but when I try to climb aboard, Alma stops me. “It’s best if you’re not around him right now.”

“He’s my father,” I say.

“You’re a trigger,” she tells me. “Go back to Los Angeles for a little while. Let him recalibrate. Then we can talk about whether you can finish this book or not.”

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