Page 25 of The Ghostwriter

The snacks I’d bought myself when I first arrived have finally run out. Though Jack sent me home last night with leftovers, I’d rather save them for dinner, so I’m raiding my father’s pantry, grateful for the break. I find a package of Doritos, rip them open, and lean against the counter, savoring the quiet of the main house. As soon as I eat something, I plan on checking my father’s email again to see if John Calder has gotten back to him. Or whether he will at all. The last two times I checked, there hadn’t been anything. Just more emails from the Gap.

I’m reaching into the bag for another handful of chips when my phone rings. It’s my friend Allison, finally getting back to me. I look around, desperate for something to wipe my hands on before settling on my pants, and brace myself.

“Allison,” I say, my voice hollow and breathless.

“Sorry I’m just now getting back to you,” she says when I answer. “Fiji was amazing. What’s the deal with this Ojai property?”

“Just research on a potential project,” I say. “I want to track down the owner.”

I’ve been back to the house several times, sneaking through the preserve when the neighbor’s car is gone. I’ve peered in windows, dug around in the garden, and tried to orient myself with the floor plan from the outside, matching what I can see with photographs from my father’s albums. I feel a rush now at the idea that I might be able to track down the owner and get in.

“This particular house was pretty locked down,” Allison says. “My supervisor says he sees this with homes owned by entertainment industry folks who almost exclusively purchase their homes through an LLC. This one was no different. I was able to get the name of the LLC, and from there you can go to the secretary of state’s website and see what pops up. But it’ll probably be another entity.”

I look out the window to the orchard in the distance. “What’s the name of the LLC?”

“I’m emailing it to you as we speak.”

“Thanks so much for digging into this for me. I really appreciate it.”

“Happy to help,” she says. “Look, I’ve got to run. Catch up when you’re back in town?”

“Definitely,” I tell her.

We disconnect and I check my email, the Doritos forgotten on the counter next to me. At the top is the message, as promised. I open it and scan past the boilerplate language to the name of the entity that owns the property.

Lionel Foolhardy, LLC.

Motherfucker.