The Ghostwriter(22)

“Thank you.” I don’t know when I last spoke those words. I know that right now, they seem inadequate, two syllables that say nothing, yet mean everything to me.

He looks down at me, and there is vacancy in his eyes, a lack of connection that I don’t understand. “It’s fine. I’ve got to go… some things to do.”

I’ve got to go… some things to do. It’s the last thing he says, his boots heavy on my porch, his trot down my stairs hurried. A minute later, I watch his car jerk into drive and down the street.

And to think, people consider me odd.





I was once told that marriage is a facade. I ignored the wisdom of the words, mainly because they came from a fifty-two-year-old swinger, one who believed that monogamy was a self-destructive concept, and a good orgy is the answer to everything.

But that slimy stick of sex appeal was right. Not about the orgy, though I never tested that concept out. Marriage is a facade. Simon and I… our facade started early and grew, deep and dark, a pit of secrets and lies.

I loved my husband. But I also grew to hate him.

Prologue: Helena Ross





I never write out of order, yet the prologue comes to me as Marka’s—Mark’s—contract scans in. I hand-write it quickly, before I lose the thought, my pen scratching over the notepad as the machine hums. When all of the pages are done, I staple the contract together, using a fresh pin to stick it to my board, a wave of relief pushing through me at the sight of his messy scrawl. Mark Fortune. He hasn’t written a single word, yet I already feel relief, a lift of the pressure that’s weighed me down since my diagnosis.

I look down at the prologue, reading over the content. Good stuff. It will intrigue the reader, while also confusing them. I tap the final line and step to the side, my fingers softly dragging across the laptop keys, the screen coming to life from the pressure. I look over at the prologue and feel a familiar stirring. I click on the book file, the feeling growing.

I should be eating something. And take some meds. But first, I’ll just write a paragraph. Maybe two.





When I finish the scene, it is almost five the next morning, fourteen hours after Mark’s departure. I turn off the music and save my work, stretching in the doorway before dropping on the office’s couch. I hug a pillow to my stomach.

I’d written four thousand words, my last for a while. I finished the initial courtship of Simon and set a hopeful tone for the book, one that Mark will spend the next few months strengthening, then decimating.

A part of me fears the passing of the torch, exposing my secrets, telling him everything.

A part of me fears how, in the final novel, I will come across.

A part of me is terrified. The rest feels almost giddy with liberation.

Soon… my final story will come out, and everyone will know the truth.





The knock comes five hours later, at a time too early for visitors. I practically crawl down the stairs and open my door, squinting up into Mark Fortune’s face.

At least he knocked, proof positive that men can be trained. I lean forward, far enough to see the driveway. And he parked on the street. Two points in his favor. Both of which are moot because the contract, of which I emailed him an executed copy, clearly states that he is supposed to be at home. Far away from me. I work alone, he writes alone, and everyone is happy. I look down, at the leather duffel bag in his hand, and raise one eyebrow.

“Good morning.” He’s back to the charmer I first met, his smile dipped in a casual familiarity that instantly irritates me.

“What are you doing here?” I emailed him the manuscript before I went to sleep. He should be at his desk, reviewing that content, and gently poking me, via email, for an outline.

“You forgot the attachment.” I stare at him blankly. “In your email,” he explains. “There wasn’t an attachment.”

“Oh.” It’s a distinct possibility, my all-night writing session leaving me a little loopy, my forgetfulness with attachments a common occurrence. A missing attachment doesn’t explain his presence on my front porch, at ten on a Saturday morning. “I’ll resend it.”

“I thought I’d just read it in person.” He smiles, and I stall, my mind torn between a desire for feedback and a visitor-free morning.

The feedback wins, and I step back, opening the door wider, and beckoning him in.





It’s not that hard to write a book. The words are easy. What’s difficult is the ability to breathe life into them. I chose Marka because her words jump. They have life, they have feeling. I chose Marka because I can see myself in her characters, I can feel their emotions.

The same man who wrote those words, those characters, just scratched himself. He’s reading my first chapter, in the midst of my freaking love story, and reached down, his hand gripping the front of his pants, the action one without thought, a disgusting habit that he probably does ten times a day. This is why I avoid men. This is why I avoid people in general. We are a disgusting, foul race, only a few centuries past smearing our faces with feces and dancing for rain.

“What’s wrong?” He’s looking at me, his eyebrows raised, plastic-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

I bite my lip in an attempt to stop the curl. “Nothing.”