Page 57 of The Ghostwriter

June 13, 1975

7:45 p.m.

I careen through the trees in the oak grove, crashing through underbrush, over logs, winding my way deeper into the darkness, the sound of the carnival fading. Desperate to leave the reality of what I’d done behind me. My head aches where Danny smashed it against the wall, causing me to black out. Because of that, there’s a large swath of time I can’t account for. At one point I had to stop and vomit behind a tree. Unsure if it was the stench of blood still lingering on my clothes and in my nose, or if it was the large lump forming on my head.

I need to get to Lydia. Make sure she is where she said she’d be. Together we can figure out what to do next. Who to tell.

I stumble to another tree, grasping it, trying to catch my breath, trying to mute the images that flash through my mind. Entering the house. Seeing Poppy, bloody and motionless on her bed, Danny standing over her. The rage I felt overpowering me. I remember barreling into him, once again fighting with my brother in the hallway, pounding my fists into him, not just for what he’d done to Lydia, but what he’d done to silence Poppy. To keep her from telling me what I already knew. I was sick with fear, knowing I could be next. But then Danny had grabbed my shoulders and slammed my head into the wall, and I can’t remember anything after that.

I’d woken up next to Danny on his back, clutching his throat, blood pouring out from between his fingers. For the rest of my life, I’ll never forget the sound he made—a gurgling wheeze, as if he’d had a leak somewhere and it was filling up with blood.

The knife was on the floor between us where I must have dropped it, and without thinking, I grabbed it and ran out of the house. Through the yard and toward the oak grove. Running away from what I’d seen, what I must have done before I blacked out.

I grip the knife tighter in my fist, unsure what to do with it. It has my fingerprints on it. Danny’s blood. Poppy’s blood. Everyone will think I’d killed them both. I choke back a sob. No one will believe me if I tell them Poppy was already dead. That I’d been attacked by Danny and must have killed him in self-defense. I’m Taylor, the weird, angry middle brother. Everyone will be happy to believe it was me.

I can see Lydia in the distance, her head buried in her arms. Waiting for me. The sound of footsteps catches her attention, and she looks up, panicked. She scrambles to stand, pressing herself against the tree, and I try to call out, but my voice isn’t working. As I approach, she sinks down to the ground again, disbelief and fear on her face. Somewhere in my mind, I must have noticed the blood on her arms. Her shirt. A smudge of it across her forehead. But it doesn’t yet register what that means.

Her gaze latches on to the knife in my hand, and I drop it, collapsing next to her, burying my head in my arms, finally allowing myself to fall apart.

She wraps her arms around me and holds on tight, whispering, “I thought you were dead. I thought Danny had killed you too.”

And then it all clicks into place. I look up at her, our eyes locking. Understanding passing between us, at what she’d done for me. For us. For Poppy. What we can never reveal. An unspoken promise I will keep for the next fifty years.