The Ghost Writer

by Loreth Anne White

“There.” I hand December my phone. My lifeline.

She glides ahead with a stiff spine, her soft-soled shoes making no sound on Persian runners as she leads me into the cavernous house that seems to inhale and exhale around me, as if tasting my presence, processing my scent.

Her gaze follows mine to the chess pieces, and she studies them, as though contemplating a next move, something to trick and entrap the king.

“That’s the thing about a terrible secret, Grace. You think you’re keeping it, but really, it’s the secret that keeps you.”

My only true terror is of being caught. She used this to hook me. “Thank you, Grace,” Claudia says. “For my new story ending.” She grins. “Checkmate.”