Page 88 of The Ghostwriter

But I’d run into my room instead. The place I’d always sought refuge, where I’d always been safe. Mr. Stewart crashed in after me. Too big. Too strong. He’d grabbed my wrist and twisted it, angling the knife away from himself and plunging it into my stomach. I felt the blade slip in, sharp and hot, passing through the softest part of me, until all I could see was the handle. Then Mr. Stewart had pushed me back onto the bed, still holding the knife, and it slipped out of me, the spot where it had entered pooling with blood. I’d pressed my hands to the wound, as if I could have held it all in, but there was too much.

“You did this to yourself,” he’d said, wiping the handle of the knife with his shirt, then dropping it on the floor. Then he stepped backward, away from the mess. I blinked, and he was gone. I blinked again and it was Danny standing over me, holding the discarded knife in his hand. Crying. Knowing what had happened, what I’d set in motion that he’d tried so hard to prevent.

A loud crash comes from the hallway, pulling me back to the present. Then the sound of a body hitting the floor. Heavy breathing, effort spent. My brothers will never see each other clearly. What a tragedy that Danny cannot see Vince’s tender side. Cannot appreciate his dark humor or his sharp wit. And Vince will never see Danny’s honor. The sacrifices he’s made that allowed us to believe in a world that never existed. Vince will never know Danny’s secret because I never had the chance to tell him. And now, without that last roll of film, there won’t be anyone left who can tell.

It’s quiet now, the fighting stopped. I hear the back door open and feel a panic surge through me. Was Mr. Stewart back again? Then an inhalation. A gasp. A cry.

Lydia’s voice, shouting, “What did you do to him, Danny?”

I wish I could apologize to her. I’d been so focused on exposing her mistake, her misdeeds, never looking toward the men who’d put her in that position. And now I can never make that right for her.

I don’t want to die. And yet, this is exactly how it’s supposed to happen.

It’s okay.

I’m okay.

Vincent

June 13, 1975

7:45 p.m.

I careen through the trees in the oak grove, crashing through underbrush, over logs, winding my way deeper into the darkness, the sound of the carnival fading. Desperate to leave the reality of what I’d done behind me. My head aches where Danny smashed it against the wall, causing me to black out. Because of that, there’s a large swath of time I can’t account for. At one point I had to stop and vomit behind a tree. Unsure if it was the stench of blood still lingering on my clothes and in my nose, or if it was the large lump forming on my head.

I need to get to Lydia. Make sure she is where she said she’d be. Together we can figure out what to do next. Who to tell.

I stumble to another tree, grasping it, trying to catch my breath, trying to mute the images that flash through my mind. Entering the house. Seeing Poppy, bloody and motionless on her bed, Danny standingover her. The rage I felt overpowering me. I remember barreling into him, once again fighting with my brother in the hallway, pounding my fists into him, not just for what he’d done to Lydia, but what he’d done to silence Poppy. To keep her from telling me what I already knew. I was sick with fear, knowing I could be next. But then Danny had grabbed my shoulders and slammed my head into the wall, and I can’t remember anything after that.

I’d woken up next to Danny on his back, clutching his throat, blood pouring out from between his fingers. For the rest of my life, I’ll never forget the sound he made—a gurgling wheeze, as if he’d had a leak somewhere and it was filling up with blood.

The knife was on the floor between us where I must have dropped it, and without thinking, I grabbed it and ran out of the house. Through the yard and toward the oak grove. Running away from what I’d seen, what I must have done before I blacked out.

I grip the knife tighter in my fist, unsure what to do with it. It has my fingerprints on it. Danny’s blood. Poppy’s blood. Everyone will think I’d killed them both. I choke back a sob. No one will believe me if I tell them Poppy was already dead. That I’d been attacked by Danny and must have killed him in self-defense. I’m Vincent Taylor, the weird, angry middle brother. Everyone will be happy to believe it was me.

I can see Lydia in the distance, her head buried in her arms. Waiting for me. The sound of footsteps catches her attention, and she looks up, panicked. She scrambles to stand, pressing herself against the tree, and I try to call out, but my voice isn’t working. As I approach, she sinks down to the ground again, disbelief and fear on her face. Somewhere in my mind, I must have noticed the blood on her arms. Her shirt. A smudge of it across her forehead. But it doesn’t yet register what that means.

Her gaze latches on to the knife in my hand, and I drop it, collapsing next to her, burying my head in my arms, finally allowing myself to fall apart.

She wraps her arms around me and holds on tight, whispering, “I thought you were dead. I thought Danny had killed you too.”

And then it all clicks into place. I look up at her, our eyes locking. Understanding passing between us, at what she’d done for me. For us. For Poppy. What we can never reveal. An unspoken promise I will keep for the next fifty years.

Chapter 36

June 2025

“This is Jessica Schwartz, and you’re listening toSecrets and Lies, the podcast where secrets are exposed, lies are revealed, and the truth is all that’s left. Today I’m talking with author Olivia Dumont. You may recognize the titles of many of the books she’s collaborated on, high-profile celebrities, politicians, scientists, and musicians. You might also remember her from that very public standoff she had with John Calder, who’s now in a lot of hot water of his own. But that’s not why we’re talking to her today. Olivia is also the ghostwriter of Vincent Taylor’s memoir,All Her Beautiful Days, the blockbuster book that finally answers the questions that have swirled around the bestselling horror author for decades. But what you might not know is that Olivia is also Vincent Taylor’s daughter, and to say that she grew up with secrets and lies is an understatement. Welcome to the show, Olivia. Before we get started, I’d like to offer my condolences on the death of your father.” Jessica’s voice is smooth, andas my car rolls to a stop in front of my father’s house, I switch over to my earbuds.

After his revelation about who really killed Danny, it was as if the logjam in my father’s memory had finally been cleared. He gave me permission to go back to Margot and Mark and interview them again—solidifying dates, times, and events. Making sure we nailed the version we wanted to tell to as many verifiable facts as possible, protecting my mother until it was my mother he’d see during our work sessions instead of me.You did what you had to do, Lydia, he’d say to me, over and over again.

Shortly after I finished the draft, I emailed it to Tom with a note.I won’t make excuses for myself, but this book will tell you everything you need to know about me and about my family. No matter what happens with us, I want you to know who I really am.After a week of silence, I started to wonder if he’d even bothered to open the email. Perhaps he just deleted it. But then he texted.I had no idea.

From there, we started slowly. Texts at first—cautious apologies that turned into late-night calls. Whispered conversations in the dark, fragments that would float through my dreams.

I never knew…

I wasn’t able to acknowledge…

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