The Ghostwriter(65)

I think I have known, from the beginning, that it would come to this. Mark’s right. I need to be the one to write the end of this story. The events of that day… I can’t speak them aloud. I won’t be able to explain my thoughts, the frantic rush of emotions. I might try to earn his understanding, to justify my actions, instead of just telling what happened.

But can I do it? Can I pick up this pen and write down that day? Can I walk back through my actions without breaking?

Just try. His stupid words echo in my head, the type of thing inspirational speakers scribble on the top of white boards. Try harder. That’s what I need to do. Try until it’s done.

I slowly sit up, my fingers tightening over the spiral bound end of it, pulling it onto my lap.

Just try.

If I’m going to relive it, to put that day into words, my feelings, my reactions… I need to go to the place where it began. I need to see the video that changed everything.

I pick up the notepad and pen, and carefully rise to my feet, the action still too quick, dizziness stabbing at me for a brief spell of time. I close my eyes, reset my equilibrium, and then open the bedroom door.

Mark looks up from his spot on the floor, his head lifting off of the wall, and our eyes meet. I speak quickly, before the urge leaves me.

“I’ll write it. But I need you to leave me alone to do it.”

He nods, and I can feel his eyes on me as I move down the hall and to the office, my hands shaking as I yank open the desk drawer, shoving aside bookmarks, note pads, pens and candy, my fingers picking their way to the back and to the single gold Schlage key.

I haven’t touched this key in years. When the police came, after the ambulance left, they went through the entire house. I had held my breath, wondering what they would find, what conclusions they would pull, what suspicions they would have. But they hadn’t blinked at the room or the duffel bag that sat beside its door. After they left, I had locked the door and never walked back in.

I’ve spent four years trying my best to forget everything inside.

I turn the key over in my hand. I haven’t even unlocked the door and already I can feel my chest tighten. Maybe I shouldn’t. Do I really need to walk back through the past? Do I have to see it again?

I don’t. I could take the easy route and just remember that day, recapture that feeling from the safety of this office, or Bethany’s room.

But it won’t be the same. The memory will be muted, the emotions not as crisp. I need to relive it. She deserves that.

I close my palm around the key and stand up, back into the hall, stepping past Mark and toward the room that changed everything.

The media room.





the day it happened

I step into the media room and yawn. The heavy curtains are closed, blocking out the sun, the room cozy in the dark. We’d painted the walls a deep midnight blue, one that paired well with the cream carpet and the dark leather theater seating. I eye the closest recliner and consider taking a break, curling up under a blanket and reading for a bit. Maybe I’ll take a short nap.

I discard the idea and move to the wall, the one dominated by a giant projector screen. Opening the built-in cabinet, I eye the rows of VHS tapes, moving past Simon’s childhood videos and onto the sports videos, all of games played decades ago. My current scene needs a football backdrop. I need inspiration, and enough game lingo to sound authentic. Watching a few old games will do the trick.

My husband is addicted to videotaping things. In one cabinet are a hundred slim DVD cases with Bethany’s first steps, her birthdays, her play dates with friends. In another cabinet are videos of our wedding, honeymoon, the day we moved into this house. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and hear him watching them, muted sounds barely audible through the wall. It’s odd, but so am I. I’d rather him over-document things than not document them at all.

I move to the sports section, and grab one at random—Packers vs Vikings 1998 Superbowl—and push the VHS tape in, switching the input on the remote and waiting. Hopefully, the video would have his walk into the stadium, some behind-the-scenes glimpses at the hallways, crowd, and vendors.

The screen flickers to life and I settle back against the couch.

The video is mislabeled. It’s of a girl, one who can’t be older than twelve. She runs through a yard, her blonde hair bouncing, curls flying, spinning, colliding. She skids to a stop, and her smile fades.

I don’t recognize the scuffed Nikes that come down those steps. The camera video is poor quality, the action jerky, the yard unfamiliar. I also don’t recognize the girl, her lips chapped, her face flushed. But I recognize the voice when it comes, when it says her name in a way that twists my stomach. Simon.

The camera bounces, then is set on the step, its elevated position giving me a clear view of him as he approaches her. He wears faded jeans, ones that are tight, the style of the eighties, his T-shirt sleeves cut off, and sunglasses perched on his head. He’s young—maybe sixteen or seventeen, and when the girl steps away, his hand reaches out and grabs her wrist.

He looks so confident. Had he been that confident when he’d approached me at the fair? Had he been that aggressive when he’d kissed me for the first time? Dread closes my throat, and my palm is suddenly sweaty around the remote. I drop it, and watch in horror as a giant version of Simon pulls her to the ground.

The sounds are muffled. There is a crunch of leaves as her legs thrash against the ground. The yelp of her voice right before he clamps his hand over her mouth. I swallow my own scream when I see her head turn to the side, her eyes wide, his voice in her ear, whispers that don’t reach the camera. My stomach cramps as I watch the loose flop of her shoes, her legs pinned by his thighs, her struggle useless. He presses a kiss against her cheek in the same moment that his hips thrust and her eyes clamp shut.