The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  She agreed.

  The contents are not easy to stomach, and for that I offer my sincerest apologies. I considered burning the pages, or throwing them from the highest peak of a mountain, but in the end, I’ve had to accept the truth for what it is. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to hide from it, but no more.

  It can be bent, shaped, and molded, but only in our own minds.

  Sometimes we’re forced to step back and see the whole for what it is. Only then can we come to accept it.

  I’ve gone for a long walk along your beach. I will be back, only because I feel you may have questions. I owe you answers to whatever those might be.

  After that, I’ll leave you to live your life, and God willing, find peace.

  Margaret

  Laura stares at the envelope sitting in front of her like it’s a snake that might strike at any moment.

  In a way, she supposes it is.

  She hasn’t seen or spoken with Graye since David died. She can’t imagine what the girl might want to say to her now. Apologies? Excuses?

  Does it even matter?

  Laura considers if she has it in her to pick up the envelope and burn it herself, unopened.

  But she knows she doesn’t.

  Graye is behind bars, at least for now. The chances that she’ll be released are slim to none, considering the evidence against her.

  Graye can’t hurt her.

  At least, not physically.

  Everyone has a story. Listen with an open heart.

  “Oh Mama,” she says aloud. “I don’t think this is what you meant.”

  But perhaps she did.

  Hesitantly, Laura reaches out and picks up the envelope. She slides the sheets of notebook paper from it and carefully unfolds them in her lap.

  Then, she begins to read.

  Dear Laura,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  I know it’s been some time since we’ve spoken, but I have nothing but time on my hands now, and I wanted to take the opportunity to reach out to you and perhaps explain, if I can.

  I’ve always expressed myself better through pen and paper, but now I find my hands are shaking. Perhaps because I know you don’t have to listen. But I hope you do.

  People say “Start from the beginning,” but that phrase has always struck me as silly. There are many beginnings. An infinite number. The trick is knowing which one best serves the story.

  Dr. West understood that. Or he did once. It was part of what made him one of the greats. For a time.

  Cracking open the spine of his novel Broken Home Harvest was a watershed moment for me. By the time I finished, his voice had claimed ownership of my heart. He was a wizard. A word voodooist, fearless in his power and sorcery.

  Learning to be as great a writer as David West became my singular goal, and I set about making it happen. Even if I fell short of the bar he’d set, there was no worthier metric. It sustained me for many, many years.

  If I’d only known the man behind the golden words would prove to be such a disappointment, I never would have suggested extending Dr. West an invitation to become a guest professor.

  Of course, I can’t be held wholly responsible for that. The head of the English Department made the ultimate decision, but when he asked the graduate students for suggestions, I couldn’t not speak up. After all, who else could compare?

  I was quite devastated, as you can imagine, when the position as Dr. West’s teaching assistant was initially filled by Zoe Kendrick. She was singularly unsuited for the honor. Instead of supporting Dr. West’s nomination, she bemoaned the fact that Kurt Vonnegut was dead, and hence couldn’t be approached for the position.

  Luck was not on my side, in that instance. But I’m a great believer in making one’s own luck. As a successful businesswoman yourself, I’m sure you appreciate the value in that sentiment.

  The accident that ended Miss Kendrick’s time at Cornell was regrettable, but necessary. Unfortunately, being hired as her replacement was directly responsible for the painful death of my fascination with David West.

  The man, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, of all people, did not live up to the legend.

  On a positive note, you’ll be happy to know Zoe Kendrick’s physical therapy is reportedly going well. There is even a chance, albeit a small one, that she may one day walk again.

  Laura drops the page in her hand and fights another wave of nausea. She remembers Zoe, David’s teaching assistant prior to Graye. She was a bubbly girl, always ready with a wave if Laura stopped by to drop off lunch for David.

  Tears form and Laura chokes back a sob.

  There are at least four more pages of Graye’s letter.

  If she doesn’t read it, she’ll always wonder. Yet the price of those answers is allowing Graye’s voice back into her head. She’s not sure it’s a price she can afford to pay.

  She halfway rises from the sofa, then drops back down. There’s no other way. She needs to know what other damage Graye’s obsession has caused.

  She owes it to David. She owes it to Zoe Kendrick.

  Laura closes her eyes tightly and pulls in a deep breath before she picks up the next page.

  They do say that when one door closes, another opens. It may be a cliché, but in this instance, it proved to be an accurate one.

  You see, Laura, in my exhaustive research of Dr. West, I’d always been intrigued by the story of the woman behind the myth. And from the moment I heard you speak at the first workshop you presented on campus, I knew.

  My plans hadn’t been in vain. I’d been wrong, but not by so very much. It wasn’t David I was destined to connect with, but you.

  Familiarizing myself with your habits unfortunately involved a bit of stealth, and for that I sincerely apologize. Stalking is a word with such negative connotations. It implies some intended malice, and I want you to know I never wished anything but good for you.

  I hope you believe that.

  The morning we “officially” met, I must admit I was surprised by your gracious nature. I was wary, considering my recent experience with learning there is sometimes a vast difference between a person’s public persona and their true self.

  Yet you were even more charming than I’d imagined.

  I do owe you a long-overdue apology, however. If I’d realized the blouse you chose that morning was silk, I’d have arranged our meeting for another day. It’s a shame it was ruined.

  But you, Laura! Oh, how you reinvigorated my hopes and dreams.

  And then, you left.

  I was hurt, of course. At first. But it didn’t take long for me to come to understand that you were giving me the time I needed to prepare myself.

  I’d spent many, many years honing my writing skills. I owe Dr. West a debt of gratitude for that. I couldn’t have done it without the inspiration he provided.

  But through you, I learned there is so much more that goes into the business of being a published author. Image matters as much as content. Isn’t that what you always say?

  So I set out to put your advice to use. I hope you don’t mind that you were my inspiration while I crafted a new image for myself. If you’ll forgive the use of another cliché, they also say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

  I’m afraid I had to tell a few white lies to ensure our paths intersected again. When I discovered Cecelia Ainsley was interviewing for a personal assistant, it was an opportunity too perfect to pass up.

  I must sheepishly admit I never forwarded my résumé to Ms. Ainsley. It’s not that I wished to mislead you. Rather, I took it as a sign. Sister Margaret is a believer in signs from the Almighty, but I’ve always preferred a solid plan of action.

  In this case, there was no denying the timing and location were right.

  My apologies for droning on. I doubt you’re interested in the specifics of how I set about making myself indispensable to you.

  A punctured tire, the weakened heel of a shoe, a rather lovely replacement pair in ju
st the right size. None of that seems terribly important now.

  I would like to say, though, for the record, I had no idea that leaving Hugo’s sweet note for David to find would lead to such an extreme response. Perhaps I should have anticipated it, but I’m afraid I underestimated Dr. West’s capacity for violence.

  For that, I take full responsibility and beg your forgiveness.

  I didn’t wish you harm, but sought only to give you an excuse to end your marriage free from guilt.

  He was not good for you, Laura.

  I suppose, in the end, it worked out. Now, you doubtless have more time and energy to devote to the cultivation of unrecognized talent.

  But no life is without regret, including mine.

  I regret that the manuscript I gave to you wasn’t ready. I’ve come to realize that criticism, when coming from a place of love, is not meant to wound, but to strengthen.

  It took some time to understand that, but it was an important lesson. One of many ways you’ve enriched my writing process.

  I’ll never forget your words to me. “Compelling,” you called it, but “even the supposed truth comes across like more lies.”

  I’ve taken your advice to heart and put my time in this place to use. The original manuscript has been lost, unfortunately. I assume it’s moldering in some police storage locker somewhere, filed away as evidence. I’ve come to see that as an opportunity, rather than a tragedy. The Orphan’s Ashes has been entirely rewritten, with an eye toward revision. I’ve aimed my pen for a more honest narrative and feel it’s a much stronger work now.

  For that, I owe you a debt I can never repay.

  I’m aware the chances are slim, but if there ever comes a time you could see your way to reading the new manuscript, I would be most grateful. Though, of course, I’d expect and understand if you were to say no to such a request.

  They tell me I killed David.

  At first, I admit, I couldn’t see how they could be right. Killing Dr. West was never part of the plan.

  But as time passes, I’m beginning to believe it may be true, though my memories of that morning are still somewhat hazy.

  Perhaps one day, they’ll come into focus. Until that time, I’m afraid we may never know.

  I know, Laura, how much store you put by honesty, so I’ve gone to great lengths to include nothing here but that. The truth, as I know it to be.

  You’ve been the dearest of friends to me. More like a sister, really.

  It is my fondest hope that one day we can rebuild the trust we once had.

  Warmest wishes,

  Graye

  Laura looks up from the letter and angrily swipes the tears of horror from her eyes.

  Her breath is coming quick and shallow, and she can’t get enough air into her lungs. She begins to panic, or perhaps she already was and she’s only now realizing it.

  “Cup your hands around your mouth,” Margaret says, and Laura shrieks in surprise. She didn’t hear the woman return, lost as she was in Graye’s eloquent insanity.

  Margaret sits next to Laura and places a hand on her back.

  “You’re having a panic attack,” she says calmly. “Bend at the waist and cup your hands over your mouth. I’m going to count backward from ten. I want you to hold your breath until I’m done.”

  Wide-eyed and dizzy, Laura obeys.

  Within a few minutes her pulse begins to calm. Her initial anger fades, and in its place a sadness unlike any she’s ever known rushes in to fill the void.

  Margaret holds her silently as she cries.

  She cries tears for Graye, for Margaret. For herself and David, and the marriage they should have had. Tears for Zoe Kendrick. Tears for the baby that almost was.

  She cries until she has no tears left.

  Margaret hands her a fresh glass of water and she takes it gratefully.

  “She was haunting us,” Laura says hoarsely, looking up at Margaret with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. “Like a ghost in the shadows, she was haunting our lives, and I never saw it. I never imagined—”

  She breaks off and sits up straighter.

  “She’s still lying,” she says, incredulous.

  Margaret frowns slightly and takes a seat in the chair perpendicular to the sofa, understanding intuitively that since her tears have passed, Laura will want to reestablish the boundaries of her personal space.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but can I ask what makes you say that?”

  Laura frowns and shakes her head. “She said she never intended to kill him, but that can’t be true.”

  Margaret tilts her head, her own frown deepening.

  “The knife. I had to identify the knife for the police, to confirm it came from the set in the guesthouse. If she didn’t plan to kill David, then why did she bring the knife?”

  Margaret closes her eyes slowly, then opens her mouth, but whatever she intends to say stalls on her tongue. She remains silent for a beat. “Ah,” she says finally. “I see what you mean.”

  But there’s something in her tone, something in the way she no longer meets Laura’s gaze that causes Laura to squint at the former nun.

  Margaret bites her lip, and her eyes skirt around the room. Her mouth twitches once again, as if she’s decided to say more after all. Yet she stops herself a second time.

  Instead, she stands, patting her pockets and glancing around as if checking to make sure she’s not forgetting anything, even though she brought nothing with her except the letter from Graye.

  “What is it you’re not saying?” Laura asks slowly.

  And still, Margaret won’t meet her eyes, confirming Laura’s suspicion.

  “Margaret,” she says. “Look at me.”

  The older woman sighs, then slowly turns to look at Laura.

  “After this, after all this,” Laura says, sweeping her hand at the six-page letter scattered across the coffee table, “what more could you possibly have to hide?”

  “I . . . ,” Margaret begins, then stops.

  But Laura’s had enough. “Say it!” she shouts, and Margaret flinches. “Jesus, just say it already!”

  “She’s not lying!” Margaret shouts back, surprising herself.

  They’re both panting, staring at each other with wild, hurt-filled eyes.

  “She’s not lying,” Margaret says, quieter now, visibly trying to gain control of her emotions. “She never intended to kill David.”

  “Then why bring the knife from the guesthouse?” Laura demands, refusing to let her off the hook.

  A strange combination of emotions flickers across Margaret’s face. Exasperation, sympathy, pain. Guilt mingled with grief. All of them, together, meld into a look Laura will remember for the rest of her days, along with the words that follow it.

  “The knife was never meant for David, Laura. It was for you.”

  50

  MARGARET

  “Me?” Laura says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Graye meant to kill me?”

  The fight visibly drains from her, and she melts backward into the cushions of the sofa. Her face has gone slack and uncomprehending.

  “I don’t . . .” Laura shakes her head, her eyes closing in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  Margaret hadn’t intended to share this particular insight. It isn’t something likely to come out at the trial, and she saw no reason to add to the woman’s pain.

  She searches for words to cushion the revelation, but there are none.

  “She admitted as much to me,” Margaret says, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. She’s shaking again.

  Taking in the wide eyes of the woman staring back at her, Margaret sighs and plunges on. Better to get this over with.

  “Graye has . . . difficulties with friendships. Especially female friendships. She doesn’t connect well to most people, but when she does, she becomes attached to the point of obsession.”

  Thoughts of Autumn and the sound of the girls’ combined laughter flit across her mind.

 
Margaret is to blame for this. For allowing Graye to be taken and put into the care of her sister in the first place, a hard woman without a conscience. And for everything that’s followed. Margaret knows full well what sort of life she left her infant daughter to. She’d lived that life.

  Grace’s childhood in Crystal’s home mirrored Margaret’s own so closely that there’s no escape for her from the knowledge that Grace stepped into Margaret’s place, enduring torments that were meant to be hers. Patterns of abuse that continued upon an innocent and unknowing child.

  While Margaret eagerly grasped religion as her salvation, Grace never had that option.

  The truth, as unchristian as it may sound, is that when Margaret received news that Crystal was dead, she was glad. Overjoyed, in fact, that her child was finally released from her sister’s grasp, free now to live a life Margaret never had a chance to know.

  She ignored the signs that, for Graye, it was too little, too late. Irreparable damage had already been done.

  One day, Margaret knows in her heart, she’ll have to stand before her God and answer for her failings.

  “It’s easier to see in hindsight, as I suppose most things are. But I can’t pretend there weren’t clues. Graye’s jealousy if her friend Autumn played with, or even spoke to, any of the other girls was extreme. She insisted the two of them spend every waking moment together, inseparable. She became agitated if they were separated. Once, while Autumn was visiting the dentist, Graye had a tantrum in the kitchen, breaking dishes and ruining the evening meal, because she wasn’t allowed to go with her friend. When Autumn died so suddenly, just hours before she was meant to leave us, to leave Graye, I should have questioned her more closely. The girls were alone, in a place they were expressly forbidden to be.

  “But I buried those suspicions deep. They were ridiculous. Of course Graye wouldn’t harm Autumn, her dearest friend and confidante. She was devastated by the girl’s death.”

  Margaret trails off, lost in her memories.

  “And the roommate?”

  She’d almost forgotten Laura was there.

  “I don’t know for certain,” Margaret admits. “I haven’t managed to bring myself to ask her. But I believe the girl’s overdose may not have been accidental. Graye told me she was making plans to leave. To run off with her boyfriend, leave school. Leave Graye.”