Page 6 of The Ghostwriter

June 13, 1975

8:30 p.m.

I watch the flames burn, careful not to let them grow too tall. I don’t have a lot of time, and I need to get this done. Lydia is waiting and I don’t want her to worry. Or come looking for me, asking why it’s taking so long to bring her a sweatshirt.

I’d dug a hole, the way Danny had taught me so many years ago, and tossed the bloody shirt into the bottom of it. Then I’d covered it with trash I’d grabbed on my way out of the high school, the custodians slow to gather it on the last day of the school year. The shirt I’d changed into smelled musty from my PE locker, but at least it was clean. I’d also grabbed a sweatshirt for Lydia, glad I’d been too lazy to clear out my things like Mr. Wallen had told us to.

I let the heat and smoke burn my eyes, willing them to stay open. Hoping that when I close them later, I’ll see the shadow and outline of the flames and not everything else.

I watch a plastic cup warp and burn, the smoke pungent and sharp, letting the flames die down, not wanting the trash on top to completely burn. I want people to see what it was and not look deeper to the ashes of the T-shirt at the bottom.

When they’re low enough, I cover it all with dirt, tamping it down with my feet until I can be sure the flames and embers are dead. I scrape my shoes over the top, disguising the hole—again, just like Danny taught me—before making my way back through the oak grove to meet up with Lydia. Coming up with a story for why I smell like smoke, in case anyone asks.