The Ghostwriter(80)

You are a good man. I wish I’d had a father like you. I wish I’d married a man like you. I wish, all of those years ago, we had become friends and not enemies. I wish Bethany could have met and known you. I wish I could have known you for longer than I did.

Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for your words. Thank you for helping me with the most important task of my life. And thank you for picking up the pieces, once I am gone. I look forward to reading your next book in heaven.

Your friend,

Helena





KATE

Kate shifts into park and slowly opens the door, stepping from the car and meeting the eyes of the man who stands at the end of the driveway, his hands in his pockets. She steps toward him and Mark opens his arms, crushing her against his chest. She grips him around the waist, her face turned against his shirt, and breaks, her chest heaving with the sobs, the tears flooding her eyes, dampening the flannel of his shirt. He squeezes her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head, the warmth of his embrace the only thing keeping her together.

“She didn’t have any pain,” he said gruffly. “I asked the EMTs about it. She just went to sleep last night and didn’t wake up.”

She nods, swallowing hard. “Can I see her?”

“If you’d like.” He nods toward the ambulance. “She’s in there.”

Until she sees her, she almost doesn’t believe it. Death had seemed too weak of a path for Helena. The thought of a world without her, without more Helena Ross stories, without her weekly emails and rules, and opinions… in one quick moment, it is as if Kate has lost her entire reason for existing. Helena, simply put, can’t be dead. She can’t be gone. She can’t.

Yet there she is, her pale face slack against a cheap hospital cot.

Kate blinks quickly, the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, her fingers reaching forward and gripping the rails of the gurney. Too much emotion pushes forward, her heart not prepared for it. This isn’t supposed to happen yet. She is supposed to have more time to prepare, she is supposed to be calm and cool and able to handle this. She isn’t supposed to break in half. Her mouth trembles, and she presses her lips tightly together.

“She left you a letter,” Mark says, from outside the ambulance. “Reading it might help. It did for me.”

“A letter?” Kate turns to look at him, surprised. “For me?”

He reaches back, pulling an envelope from his pocket and holding it out to her. “Here.” He steps back. “I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re done.

She carefully takes the envelope, moving out of the way as the EMTs crowd the space, Helena’s gurney locked into place as they prepare to leave. Walking down the driveway a bit, she sits down on the concrete drive and works the page out of the envelope.

Dear Kate,

I gave you rules because I was afraid. Don’t ever second-guess your ability. Don’t ever think of me in any way except as a pain. I have been terrible to you. Please forgive me. It came from a place of guilt and self-hatred. Please, in this final letter, allow me a few more moments of bossiness.

1. In the file cabinet in the utility room is my will. My attorney is my executor and his information is listed on the inside flap of the folder. Please give him a call. I’ll save you the drama of wondering at its contents. I’m leaving all of my assets to the victims of Simon Parks. I’m asking Charlotte Blanton to track them down based on the contents of video tapes that Mark is giving her. I am hoping, given her history in Wilmont, that she will recognize most of them.

2. Also in the utility room is a stack of unpublished manuscripts. They are works that I never felt comfortable enough to publish. Feel free to read through them and see what you think. You have always been honest with me about my writing. Please read them in the same critical manner. If you think that there are any quality pieces there, feel free to pitch them. If there is rewriting to be done, please ask Mark to co-write on those titles. I understand that this is more than your standard duties. Please let this letter act as authorization for my estate to pay you a forty percent commission on those titles. You are one of the few individuals that I trust to not let the economic benefits outweigh your judgment of the content.

3. As far as this novel, I have been editing and rewriting it as we have gone, so I believe that it is fairly polished in its current state. Please pitch it to Tricia Pridgen, and have any sales proceeds put into an escrow account for future victims that Charlotte may find.

I’m certain that I’m forgetting something. I’m also certain in your ability to make the best decisions on my behalf. Don’t hesitate if faced with a question. You know the answer, especially where I am concerned.

Thank you. I never said it enough, and it is too weak here. But it is sincere. Thank you for everything that you did for my writing and my career. Thank you for making me into one of the biggest names in our business. Thank you for your guidance and wisdom and for making it possible to spend so much of my life doing what I love. I appreciate you, and I never showed that enough.

With love,

Helena Ross

She reads the letter twice, then slowly leans back, laying back on the cement drive, looking up into the branches of the tree, fresh tears leaking out of her eyes.

I appreciate you, and I never showed that enough.

She chokes out a laugh. Damn Helena. Becoming a human in her final moments of life.