Page 86 of The Ghostwriter

“We had a special connection, once upon a time,” Mr. Stewart says.

Danny’s face quickly becomes a mask, and he says, “What do you want, Mr. Stewart?”

“Remember, I said you could call me Paul when it’s just the two of us.”

“What do you want,Paul?” Danny’s voice is now a sneer. “Surely, I’m too old for you. Are you still taking kids into that equipment shed? Telling them they’re special, explaining how to keep big secrets?” He snaps his fingers as if just remembering something. “Oh wait, you can’t because I burned it down.”

I glance at my father to make sure he’s okay. His expression is intent on the screen, watching the scene unfold.

“I got away from you once,” Danny says. “And you had to move in next door.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Danny. We’re neighbors now. Let’s be friendly about it at the very least. After all, it’s not like you’re blameless,” he says. “I know what you did to my cat, and yet I’m able to forgive you.”

Mr. Stewart grabs Danny’s wrist and pulls Danny toward him. Gripping Danny’s hand, he guides it lower, then reaches out with his other to caress Danny’s cheek. He leans in to kiss Danny on the lips, which seems to wake Danny up.

Danny shoves Mr. Stewart hard. “Get the fuck off me!”

Mr. Stewart holds his hands up as if he meant no harm, walking backward with a smile on his face like he’d only been joking. “I hope you’ll come to my end-of-year party tomorrow night. It should be fun.”

Then he’s gone.

Danny crouches down, covering his face with his arms, and sobs. When he finally looks up, he must see his sister, filming. His expression morphs into fear, then rage. He leaps up and Poppy takes off, the camera still rolling.

I stare at my father, watching him watch this moment play out, absorbing what it means. Knowing the ending. There are only a few seconds of film left and I know it by heart now. Flashes of dirt and leaves. Of sky. Of Danny’s enraged face. Poppy’s feet pounding on the ground, her breathing heavy. A glimpse of Poppy—her hair, her arm, her face at one point, terrified—then the camera pinwheeling through the air, going black.

When it’s over I say, “Did Mom know what Mr. Stewart had done to Danny? She spent a lot of time with him. Could he have done it to her as well?”

“No. I’m certain of it.” My mother had also been certain, but if she’d been lying to me, I’d have no way to know. “I knew you’d find the movies, but I hadn’t anticipated your mother keeping that last reel of film. She never told me she had it.” He stares across the courtyard, possiblyimagining my mother as a young girl, squirreling away the evidence that would have changed his life. That would have changed mine as well. If he’s angry with her, he doesn’t show it.

“I talked to Margot and Mark.” He gives me a sharp look and I clarify. “I never mentioned the book. I told them I just wanted answers, as Danny and Poppy’s niece. They were able to tell me a few things that helped shade in those last weeks. One of the things Margot told me was about Mr. Stewart’s end-of-year party and how unusual it was that Poppy didn’t want to go.”

“She got drunk,” he says. “Caused a scene and I had to go get her. She was yelling something at Mr. Stewart about secrets.”

“Do you think it’s possible that might have tipped off Mr. Stewart about what she knew?”

My father looks at me, astonished. “You think…?”

“I have no proof that Mr. Stewart killed them. This video only proves what he did to Danny. But if Poppy threatened to tell—and from what you told me, she wanted you to meet her at the house so she could tell you something—it’s certainly a motive. And a very good reason why he agreed to lie to the police about where he was at the time of the murders.”

My father looks shaken. “All this time, we thought he was alibiing us because we forced him to.”

I’m quiet, letting my father piece together what I’ve shared with him, his gaze forward, yet his mind clearly far away in time. Finally I say, “I’m thinking we should—” but he cuts me off.

“I need a moment,” he says, struggling to stand. I move to help him, but he waves me off, walking to the edge of the courtyard where an archway leads into the orchard behind the house. He stands there, his hand braced on one side of it, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall.

Behind me, Alma comes to the door. “What’s happening?” she asks.

“Dad?” I say, my voice tentative.

“I’m fine,” he says, not looking at either of us.

After a second, Alma returns to the kitchen, and I wait for my father to gather himself.

When he sits next to me again, I say, “Are you okay?”

“I always thought he did it.”

“Mr. Stewart?” I ask.

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