The Ghostwriter(75)

Hope surges through me, and I look around the room for anything I might need. I open the dryer and dig through the clothes. I pull out a pair of stretchy pants and a t-shirt, stripping out of my pajamas and stuffing the dirty items into the washer. My socks also come off, a clean pair snagged and put on. I work through the first step of the plan—getting to Bethany. It’s over two miles to my Mother’s house, which is certainly in walking distance. I need shoes. Just outside of the utility room is a basket, a place to put muddy items before coming into the house. It will have something, anything better than bare feet.

Before I open the door, I return the folder to its file and shut the cabinet. I run a disinfecting wipe over everything and survey the space, satisfied that any hint of my presence is gone.

I glance back at the hot water heaters and give myself one last opportunity to stop everything, to go back and repair the heater. I could save Simon’s life and then run. Maybe I’ll get to Mom’s before he does? But maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll step out of this utility room and he’ll be waiting. Maybe, once I get free and to the cops, all of the evidence will be gone and I’ll be charged with attempted murder.

The hot water quiets, the run of water stopping. Simon’s shower is done. I leave my conscience behind and reach for the knob.





The garage is dark and I reach out, flipping off the utility room switch and halting its spill of light into the space. The dark settles, and I pause halfway through the doorway, and listen. Nothing moves. I step out of the room and slide the door shut. I carefully work my way through the dark and find the mud basket, pushing aside a windbreaker jacket before finding the only other item—a pair of Simon’s running shoes.

The garage’s window is obscured by a giant political sign, something that Simon agreed to put in our yard and never did. I carefully set it on the ground and push it beneath my car, the slide of cardboard against concrete too loud for my sensitive ears. I work the tennis shoe on my left foot, then pick up the right, not bothering with laces, my feet easily slipping into the size eleven Adidas. Gripping the edge of the counter, I heft myself up, my butt working its way onto the wooden surface. I swing my feet up and kneel, fumbling at the window’s lock. I get it undone and grip the sill, struggling to get the window up, the open rectangle barely enough to fit through.

It is enough. I push my feet through, then work my hips out, my body awkwardly bending back as I slide out of the window, my back scraping painfully against the metal sill. I land awkwardly, one tennis shoe stumbling over a rolled up hose, and I hold out my hands in an ungraceful attempt to find my footing. There. I straighten and step toward the brick, hugging the side of the garage, and staying out of sight. Looking up at the open window, I realize it’s too high for me to close. It doesn’t matter. I move forward, my back brushing against the brick, and round the side of the house. I consider the road, then discard it, my alibi dependent on no one seeing my guilty dash from the house.

I turn and run, as quickly and as quietly as I can, into the woods behind our home.





I am not an athlete, never have been. Now, I stagger through backyards and side roads, my arms as exhausted as my legs, the mere act of swinging them somehow tiring. When the first cramp comes, it feels like a knife and I stop, pressing a hand into the spot, my chest heaving, legs shaky with fatigue. I start again and, at some point, realize I’ve gone the wrong way, my shortcut leading me into a gated community I can’t get out of, and I attempt to scale a fence before I realize that I will have to backtrack, just to get around the brick fence.

Bethany is the only thing that gets me through it. Soon, I will have her in my arms. Soon, everything will be okay.

I jog when I can, and walk the rest of the time, moving as fast as I can manage, my feet flopping around in Simon’s big shoes, a blister forming on the bridge of my foot. I practice the lines of my story, the tone of my voice, the look on my face when I see my mother. “You’re always telling me to exercise more. I decided to jog over. Do you feel up to an early dinner? You could drop Bethany and me at the house afterward.” She will ask questions, she always does. She will smile and agree but there will be an edge of irritation. She will get on to me for forgetting my wallet and my cell. She will go into all of the things that could have happened, and how I can’t, I just simply can’t, be so absentminded. Not when I am a mother, and have Bethany to think of. She will rattle on and on about stupid possibilities, her voice growing more superior, more condescending, more frustrating. None of it will matter. I’ll have Bethany back and be just days away from a new life, one far away from her judgments and admonishments. I inhale deeply and imagine the smell of Bethany, the soft skin of her cheek, the curl of her hair. I am almost there, just blocks away from never letting her out of my sight.

Just ahead of me, Mom’s house, the edge of her white picket fence. Maybe Bethany will be in the front yard. I force myself forward, the ache in my side flaring, and round the street corner, rising on my toes to see as much of Mother’s house as possible.

Yes. There is a light on in the kitchen, a glow of gold in the fall of dusk. I manage to jog, my feet dragging along the concrete, a squirrel darting across my path. A car approaches, and I wait for it, cutting across the road as soon as it rolls past. I let myself in the gate and climb the front steps, trying the door. It is locked, and I reach out, pressing on the doorbell. She has to be home. I try to calculate how much time has passed since she picked Bethany up. An hour and a half? Two?