The Writer by Amy Cross Page A

from tipping over again. “You’re going to injure yourself if you’re not careful.”
    “Come back!” I shout at David and Hannah as they disappear into the night. “Please, come back…”
    “They’re gone,” John says, kissing the top of my head. “It’s okay, they were always going to go, I’ve got it all worked out now. The story’s over. You and me, Beth, we’re the only ones left who weren’t actors.” He kisses me again as I break down and start sobbing uncontrollably. “Hush,” he whispers. “They were good ghosts, weren’t they? Good actors. I really think this was my best story ever. Much better than all those books.”
    “No,” I whimper, shaking my head as I try to ignore him. “This isn’t real.”
    “It’s real,” he says quietly. “I wrote your life, Beth. For the past seven years, anyway. I decided what would happen to you, I hired actors to play the people you met, the people you loved, and I made you live a ghost story.”
    “They were real,” I sob. “Hannah’s my daughter. I gave birth to her…”
    “The child you gave birth to was switched and sent to an orphanage,” he replies. “I had to pay a lot of money to find someone who was willing to let their own child be raised by you as a substitute. It was complicated, getting a child involved. There were so many logistical problems, but it worked out eventually. It’s amazing what you can achieve if you just throw enough money at a problem, and that lovely little girl turned out to be such a wonderful actress. I was very lucky.”
    “She’s my daughter,” I whisper through the tears.
    “No, she’s someone else’s daughter. You real daughter is being raised somewhere by foster parents. I’m sorry, I didn’t keep track of her, I didn’t think there was any point. I’m sure she’s fine, though. You held her once, before the switch was made. I don’t know if that counts for anything.”
    “No,” I say softly, as slowly my sorrow seems to solidify and starts building into pure anger. I want nothing more than to get free and hurt him. “This is insane.”
    “I wish I had time to tell you how it was all done,” he continues, kissing the top of my head yet again. “I know it must seem improbable, but trust me, with enough time and enough money and, well, with a great deal of creativity and imagination and just a little luck, I was able to pull it off. Frankly, I’m amazed, but there you go. I don’t want to brag, but I guess I’m one hell of a writer. I just… outgrew books. I wanted to tell a story with actual people, in the real world.” He kisses me again. “Once I had the idea, it was impossible to resist.”
    “Stop that,” I whisper firmly, my mind racing as I try to work out how to get free. I still don’t quite believe everything he’s told me, but I figure I need to get away from him before I can start working it all out properly. “Jacqui was right. There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
    “She thought I was some kind of pervert,” he replies, making his way over to the door and waving at someone I can’t see. He turns to me. “She was wrong about that.”
    “How did you…” I pause for a moment, thinking back to everything that happened tonight. “How did you fake her ghost? If she wasn’t in on all of this, how did you make her appear?”
    “I didn’t,” he replies. “That never happened.”
    “I saw her,” I continue, taking slow, calm breaths. “She was there tonight, after the fire. She screamed at me to run, so told me to be careful!”
    “You must have imagined that part,” he explains. “It’s not a big surprise, given the trauma you’ve been under. I was trying to push you toward a heart attack. Hard to believe that the timing came together so beautifully.”
    “Why?” I ask. “Why the hell did you do all of this?”
    “To see if I could,” he replies. “To see if I could take the talents I normally used to write all those books, and write your