The Ghostwriter(37)

“Helena.”

It is not a simple name. In just the three syllables, he manages to pack in everything that he is doing for me, for this book. He is saving the final days of my life. He is allowing me my confession. He will, one day soon, keep my secrets until I die. And he wants me to go to Memphis. It seems, on this good day of health, like a small concession.

“Okay.” I purse my lips. “But only a couple of days.”

“I’ll take you home the minute you ask.”

I nod, a grating movement that almost creaks from unuse, and his face splits open in a smile. He is jogging by the time he moves down the stairs, the heavy vibration of boots against wood echoing through the house.

Oh, how quickly a life can change.





I haven’t mentally prepared for the flight. The drive here was too short and dominated by Mark, his jaw not pausing since the time we climbed into his truck. I expected lines of security, an x-ray machine, some liquid restrictions—but none of the woes of travel, everything I’ve read about—occurs. We walk from his truck, through a small lobby, and are suddenly at the plane, everything in motion, us minutes from taking off.

Something in my belly flips, and I feel a wave of panic, one strong enough to cut through the anti-anxiety pill I took before we left. His plane looks small, too flimsy to lift off the ground and barrel across the sky. I examine the vessel, a two-door aircraft with one giant fan stuck on the nose. I don’t know planes, but it seems that two propellers would be better than one, and that the larger the plane, the safer it will be. The wind whips around us and I clutch my jacket closed, the weight of my backpack reassuring, my laptop hard and flat against my spine. If we die, I’ll have the manuscript with me. I’ll die knowing I fit in as many words as I could, even if I don’t get into the root of the mess.

“You look worried.” He pushes something into the underside of the wing, and then holds a small bottle up to the sunlight, examining the liquid level in it.

“I haven’t flown before.” The confession darts from me, the words almost carried off by the wind.

“You haven’t flown private? Or haven’t flown at all?”

“At all.” It’s ridiculous, I know. I’m thirty-two, for God’s sake. This should have been knocked out in my twenties, my chubby bank account taking me to Paris, or Alaska, or some other glamorous locale. Instead, I stayed stubbornly in the New England area, any trips outside done by car or train. It isn’t so much that I have a fear of flying, it is more that I’ve always been a little too educated in its danger potential. I read Alive. If we crash on a mountain range, I’ll be the first to succumb. I’ll die, knowing that he will turn cannibal and eat my scrawny forearms. I swallow a gruesome smile at the thought and nod to the deathtrap. “It looks dangerous.”

“It’s the safest plane you’ll ever step foot in,” he says, moving forward and peering at the front wheel. “It’s got a parachute on it. If something goes wrong—hell, if I keel over and die while flying—you can push a button and it’ll get you to a safe altitude and open the chute, and you’ll float down to the ground.” He straightens and makes a swaying motion with his hand, like that of a feather falling. “The impact might sting a little, but nothing that a few visits to the chiropractor can’t fix.”

A parachute makes me feel enormously better, and I watch him circle the end of it, his hand sweeping over the metal in the way you might check a horse. “What are you doing?”

“Pre-flight check. Why don’t you climb on up? This’ll take me a few more minutes.”

“I’m good.” Truth be told, I have no idea how to climb on up. There are no stairs, or a ladder, and I can’t see a door handle. I stuff my hands into my pockets and wait.

“Suit yourself.” He looks over at me and pauses. “I’m a good pilot, Helena. I’ll get you there safely.”

The wind howls and I look up to the sky, not a cloud in sight. At least the weather is clear.





I stare at the screen, at the red and yellow bands that flicker across it, and feel a wave of panic. The plane dips, and I grab at the door, cursing Mark Fortune with every word in my dictionary. All I can picture, as rain peppers the windshield, is that damn parachute. It won’t float gently down, not in this storm. Gusts of wind will grab ahold of its sail and whip us from side to side—like one of those carnival rides that only stupid teenagers enjoy. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, my hands sweating against the seatbelt straps.

“Relax.” The word drawls out of him, and I turn my head, my peripheral vision catching the loose fit of his hands on the stick. “We’re going around the storm. We’re in no danger.”

As if to defy him, the plane rocks, and I whimper despite my best attempts to control my hysteria.

“Just turbulence.” He turns to me. “I’m taking us higher. It’ll calm down in a moment.”

“How much longer before we arrive?” I wish I could reach my water. It’s in the side pouch of my backpack, which I tossed in the back seat without thinking. My mouth feels dry, my face clammy, and as the plane shudders, I feel nauseous.

“Two more hours. That seat reclines, if you’d like to take a nap.”

The man is crazy. Anyone who would sleep, at a time like this, is crazy.