No, she couldn’t pay him enough. He had spent the last four years struggling unsuccessfully to write himself back into print and was barely making ends meet. It didn’t help that Maggie, his ex-wife, kept squeezing him for alimony. Maggie. The very thought of her made his stomach grind.

“Of course, we’d work out the contractual matters with your agent.”

His agent! He hadn’t talked to his agent in over a year, when she had told him that another house had passed on his previous manuscript.

“It’s really a terrific idea.”

That was the third time she made that claim, and he could see how eager she was to share it. “I’m sure, so why don’t you write it yourself?”

“Because I don’t have the talent. I can’t even come up with a decent ending.”

“Maybe you should take a workshop.”

“I tried to enroll in yours this semester, but it was full. Same in the spring.”

“I’m scheduled to offer it again next fall.”

And the following spring and the fall after that, he thought. In fact, that was how he regarded the remainder of his pathetic life—one continuous workshop until the day despair finally stopped his heart. Or, better, a bullet from his Smith & Wesson.

“I could take a hundred workshops and it wouldn’t be good.”

“You won’t know if you don’t try.”

“I have tried, believe me, but I don’t have the gene. I read your works and I’m in awe of how you create characters with depth and dialogue that sounds like real people talking. And the narrative thrust that keeps the pages turning—”

Blah, blah, blah, he thought as she prattled on.

“Frankly, it’s too good an idea to be wasted on me or some hack writer. You can create the tension and sense of dread that it needs.”

Only because I have a paranoid personality, lady. Only because deep down I’m a frightened little man who writes thrillers to get bigger than the things that scare me.

“Really, you have what it takes.”

No, I used to, he thought. Geoffrey Dane—“Boy Genius” they called him on his first novel. “Brings class to the thriller genre.” Now: Adult wannabe. Can’t write shit.

“Plus you always have great surprises at the end. That’s what I love best. Those twists we never see coming. Really, you’re a modern O. Henry.”

He could feel himself begin to soften to the conviction that lit up her eyes. But her flattery only made his heart slump even more. Everything she said was true—but in the past. And the thought of being a ghost writer made him want to vomit. He also didn’t care to hear her idea because if it was good, he’d wish it were his own. Furthermore, he had no interest in entering complicated contractual arrangements with a perfect stranger. Plus she couldn’t pay him enough. He glanced at his watch. “Thanks for thinking of me, but I really have to go.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you have a class. But will you think it over?”

“Think what over? You haven’t said what the idea is.”

“If I can get a commitment, I’ll be happy to tell you.”

He packed the student stories into his briefcase and got up to leave.

“So, we can talk again?”

She was wearing a black shearling coat that probably cost more than the book value of the eleven-year-old BMW he drove. “I’ll think about it.”

Her face looked like a lacquered apple. “That’s great,” she chortled. “Thank you. Thank you.”

As they walked out of the lounge and into the hall, she handed him a card. On it, embossed in gold script, was her name, cell-phone number and e-mail address. No mailing address, probably to be on the safe side, given the rise in identity thefts and sexual stalkings.

“I really appreciate this.” Her eyes were sparking with expectation. “Okay to call you next week?”

“Yeah.” Then he looked back at her. “By the way, what kind of story is it?”

“A ghost story.”

A ghost story! He didn’t write ghost stories. And he didn’t ghostwrite ghost stories. Especially for students. What a bloody insult!

The weekend passed, and he had spent it at his place—a small cape at the end of a cul-de-sac in Carleton, ten miles west of Boston. From dawn to bedtime he tapped away on his keyboard, producing little more than a page of uninspired narrative. He was four chapters into another novel—the last two sitting in mailers on the shelf, cover letters from editors inside apologizing that the book was not right for their lists. The story was outlined, but he did not like the direction it was taking. And he could think of no decent alternatives. He had hit an impasse. He could, of course, just quit—blame the blockage on the imp of discouragement and take the self-fulfilling-prophecy route: haven’t written anything saleable in years, can’t do it again.

He really didn’t believe in writer’s block. That was nothing more than a phony excuse, a handy cop-out for laziness as if it were a legitimate pathology like viral pneumonia or hepatitis. But, Jesus, he was blocked! Nothing decent was coming—no plot-advancing ideas, no narrative thrust, no belly fire. All that kept coming were bills from Visa, Verizon, Allied Fuel, Carleton Mortgage Co. and e-mails from Maggie to pay up.

It was December and the houses on the street were decorated for Christmas. And through the woods behind his place was a path around Spy Pond. He liked its frozen bleakness, so he broke up the keyboard hours with long walks to open his mind to any inspiration that might wing by. Yet he returned with nothing but a chill.

He spent the next several days teaching his classes and reading student stories. On Thursday he received a voice message at his work number. “Hi, Professor, this is Lauren Grant. It’s been nearly a week. I’m just wondering if you’ve thought over my proposal.”

Proposal. The word jumped out at him. Talk about paranoid, she was probably afraid he’d steal the idea, so she had refused to reveal the story line until he signed a contract. Even if he wanted to, it was ridiculous strategy since you couldn’t copyright ideas, only their execution. Instead of getting back to her, he stopped by the office of his chairman, Lloyd Harrington. “You know a student by the name of Lauren Grant?”

“Lauren Grant? Yeah. She’s a part-timer, auditing courses here and there. What about her?”

“She came to me the other day asking if I’d ghost a story for her.”

“Oh, yeah. She’s been shopping that around for weeks, asking anyone in Greater Boston who’s ever published a thriller to take her on.”

Geoff felt his stomach leak acid. The little bitch. She had come on to him as if he were the one author in creation born to pen her tale.

“When she came in, I suggested you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine.” But he did mind.

“Did she say what the idea was?”

“Not really. Something about a ghost.”

“Whoopie,” Lloyd said. “If it’s something you’re interest in pursuing, that’s your business not the university’s.”

“Okay, thanks.” Geoff started out the door.

“In case you’re interested,” Lloyd added, “I think she comes from money.”

For the rest of the day, that phrase echoed and reechoed in Geoff’s brain. That evening, while sitting at his desk at home, he sent her a brief e-mail to say he was interested and wanted to hear more. The curtness implied that out of politeness he’d suffer her another meeting before outright rejection. He suggested they meet in the student center, wondering just how much money she came from.

The food hall was a large open space filled with tables and chairs and flanked with several fast-food takeouts. Because it was midmorning, the place was half-empty. He bought them each a coffee, and they took a table in a quiet corner. “Okay, but before we get to the story, I think we should discuss the ugly stuff.”

“Ugly stuff?”

“Writer’s fee.”

That caught her off guard. “Sure, of course.” Then from her briefcase, she pulled out a manila envelope. “If you don’t mind, I contacted a literary agent and had a contract drawn up.”