We at FSG have been at this for a few hours now. This has become an urgent and halting decision to make, one that we do not take lightly. In fact, this has been the toughest call of my career thus far, and many of my highly experienced colleagues have said the same. We’re big fans of the works J.D. Church has given the literary world, but considering the allegations and reports coming out, we do not feel it is morally right to publish an offender. Again, this is a tough call. I hope we can work together in the future; you have quite a talented list of authors!

  Pendel is insulted. It’s basically a form-letter rejection. In his eyes, at least, this is about as by the books he’s received in years. Do they forget who they’re doing business with? This Mills has no idea. Pendel’s livid, believing that her inexperience has just destroyed her career, and marks a visible point where her luck has run out.

  “If she thinks she’s getting any of my help now,” he laughs. “Oh, I can’t wait to see when she realizes just how big of a mess she’s created.”

  He takes the pass personally, knowing well that he shouldn’t, and in the heat of the moment, he calls Hendrix. It rings but the editor doesn’t pick up, which only adds to Pendel’s frustration.

  “Marina!”

  There’s nobody else to turn to.

  She appears at the door, “Yes?”

  He falters. Nothing comes to mind. “Umm.”

  How uncharacteristic. Pendel’s always been vigilant, determined to get the best out of every situation and conversation.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. Bet she has heard by now.

  “I am always okay,” says Pendel.

  She frowns, “It’s just that first Church is found dead, they say murdered, and then it comes out that he’s sexually abused his students… this is a lot to handle. For anyone, but even more so for your because⁠—”

  “Because what?”

  The guilty always act defensively.

  “Because he was your author.”

  “Right,” he nods, tension instantly deflating. “Right…”

  Marina’s just trying to help. It’s her job.

  “Need me to call up… maybe Benji?”

  “Already did,” he says.

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  She’s just standing there…

  “Well okay then!” Pendel claps his hands together.

  Marina can’t help but ask once more, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m always okay.”

  The hostility is enough to get her to leave.

  Pendel already knows: There’s going to be another pass. He’s trying to come to grips with the situation. Did Church ever tell him about his criminal past? Had he and Pendel simply ignored the confession? Money speaks louder than honesty.

  “Hmm,” he mumbles.

  And… there it is. The next pass is from that guy at Macmillan. Pendel rolls his eyes, “Of course. He’ll go along with any hot take.” He clicks, opening the email. “Fucking coward has no spine. He goes for the easy offers, the low-risk projects.”

  The pass goes something like this:

  Henry, Thank you for blah blah blah in light of the recent news we blah blah blah I’ve always been a fan of blah blah blah…

  Pendel doesn’t even bother to read the whole thing. He files it away under Church and skims the other new email waiting for him. Sandwiched between queries is a media request from a journalist. He doesn’t need to open the email; they want a quote. Everyone’s going to want a quote from him. My author…

  My agent.

  The synchronicity, everything is colliding at once, and he isn’t liking any of it. Pendel’s seeing everything fall apart. And then Pendel finds himself back on social media, reading people’s takes on Church, when a DM appears from a new account, the name and profile picture look obviously fake.

  “Ever wonder what people are saying about you behind your back?”

  The message sent harkens back to a voice that has been whispering in his ear, watching his every move, since the beginning of the story.

  Chapter 12

  Do you ever wonder what people are saying about you behind your back? Does someone like Henry Richmond Pendel feel anything? Does he even care about backchannel gossip, people sharing their experiences with the agent? He’d like the public to believe that no, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even listen; this is all business. When really, I know he looks. I know he has his assistant looking. I know what eats away at his sanity, hyper-analyzing the day when everything changes, and he no longer is a top agent.

  He can’t help himself.

  I know this to be fact. It’s proven yet again when he replies to my DM.

  That’s their business, not yours. Not mine. Who the fuck is this?

  Vanish. It all vanishes.

  Well, except for the bodies. Like any good story, it sticks around. It stands the test of time. People remember, and they return to an emotionally impactful story.

  Another acceptance! This time it’s with the New Yorker. That’s right, the New fucking Yorker! Seems Brendon Kawada had been tapping into the zeitgeist. Everyone’s feeling lonely and abandoned these days. I blame it on technology. It was designed to bring people together when really all it does is tear people apart.

  Everyone is seemingly there, at your fingertips, when really, you’re in a cage, watching the infinite scroll of discourse and outrage. Kawada poured his heart out, just as I ensured that the outpour from his heart wasn’t wasted. I had a taste. There’s nothing more intimate than someone connecting with your story. Second is swapping body fluids.

  He didn’t get mine, but I surely got a taste of his.

  I could still taste it, the life coursing through that thick blood. I got a taste just before it finally left him. And then I returned to his manuscript and made the changes accordingly. I found the chapter that stood out and stood alone. He could say so much more, but I find it to be the most tender and heartfelt of the entire manuscript.

  Still, he could have really run with it, have both characters on the edge of the would-be cliff, willing to hurt themselves if it meant other people would no longer hurt themselves.

  Isn’t that beautiful?

  You can find beauty anywhere.

  So my story, Cliffside at the End of the World, is going to grace the pages of the New Yorker. How fun!

  The London Review.

  The Denver Review.

  And now… The New Yorker.

  I hope the third time’s a charm!

  Hey. Respond.

  Oh, he’s making demands! To be at the receiving end of Pendel’s cutthroat commands…

  Hello.

  He’s ready to pounce, Who is this?

  I’m ready to play.

  He’s typing, continues to type. The text bubble flickers but there’s no reply, not at first. It gives me time to draft a future email to the agent. He’ll get it when the timing’s right.

  When his reply does arrive, it’s lengthy, roughly upwards of 500 words.

  Look, I am not a person you can toy with or threaten. You do realize who you’re talking to, right? This false sense of security, this anonymity of being on the internet, it isn’t going to keep me from finding out who you are, and when I do, you better believe there will be repercussions. I have pursued legal action before, and I will do so again if you do not stop harassing me with these messages. Now, if you comply with my demands, telling me who you are, what your name is, and why you see this as an adequate avenue of communication, I may waive any future legal repercussions.

  There’s more but it’s repetition, the extraneous stuff in a story that’s unnecessary. Take in point the brevity of my reply:

  Those are serious threats. I’m an author, hopeful to have an excellent career. I’m also a fan of yours. Your list is full of amazing authors. I hope to one day be among them.

  To the point. Best of all, it’s all true.

  I am among them.

  He gives me another rambling response, mostly about how I refuse to provide a name, and it’s precisely the reason why this is a malicious attack, one that he won’t just shrug off. And if you think I’ll be offering representation, you must be out of your fucking mind.” He then adds, in a successive reply, “Yes, you are absolutely out of your mind. I think I’ll be blocking you now.

  Blocking the account works similarly to these DMs, they disappear, become invalid. What no longer exists can’t be used as evidence. Or didn’t Benji tell you that’s how this worked.

  He doesn’t reply. Now I really have his attention. The key to plotting is to prolong the big moments, giving them just enough buildup to have the biggest impact when it’s finally time for the hefty scene. Case in point, here’s where he gets another clue:

  I’ve been workshopping my stories. With some of your clients actually.

  Now why would I say something like that? I wouldn’t dare put myself in a compromising position if I didn’t already know how this story is going to end.

  Still nothing from Pendel. He’s being good for once; perhaps there’s recognition of how much is left in this story. He must see it now, that we’re only getting started.

  The thing about people talking about you behind your back is that you don’t have any control over it. It can be so frustrating for someone in your position, especially when it involves these murders. I say murders because there’s been more than one.

  He starts typing, but it’s better if I give him a nugget of truth, this time before the public finds out.

  When was the last time you spoke with Brendon Kawada? Because I had a productive workshop the other night, and boy, he’s talented. He really bleeds onto the page.

  Pendel won’t be saying anything else. He realizes who’s in control and where this story is going. The emerging author has a lot to prove.

  Chapter 13

  People refer to him as a jackal, a hungry and unrelenting presence in the literary world. Pendel finds himself doomscrolling using search terms exclusive to his name, reputation, and agency. What he finds is more negative than positive, the latter being almost entirely on an author’s part, the many deal announcements he brokered, the many opportunities he fought for and was able to make a reality… but nobody talks about how much skill and determination is required to get an author the deal they deserve. No. Instead, there’s nothing about Pendel except the many authors rejected, often by letter or silence, who turn to their blogs, their social media accounts, and to their own writer communities to talk ill of him.

  He does get a kick out of those actively frightened of him, an indication that at least one major aspect of his cutthroat business dealings has yielded something intentional and deliberate. They wouldn’t dare cross him, and that sense of fear, Pendel doesn’t seem to fully understand, is tantamount to the same “power” mobsters and other criminals use to scare their victims into silence. Pendel has a lot of work to do before he can even see past the immediate issue, his current flood of anger and anxiety, before he can fathom how the reputation he has built may very well be the thing that destroys him.

  And then there’s the call. Hendrix, who else?

  Watch an entire empire crumble.

  Pendel picks up by the third ring, never a good sign when it’s a call directed to his personal cell phone, yet Pendel must uphold that reputation. He can’t demonstrate any hesitation. No matter how anxious, he must remain steadfast and stoic.

  “Hendrix, been anticipating your call!”

  He doesn’t get the same enthusiastic response. Instead, Hendrix remains calm and cordial, “Pendel, how are you faring?”

  “Doing just fine,” he says.

  Maybe that’s not the right response, given the admittedly grave circumstances.

  “I see,” says Hendrix.

  “Out with it,” Pendel says. “You’ve got something for me. I know you do. Ticking clock!”

  “Right,” he sighs. “Well, I’m sure you’ve seen the news stories, and the furor online.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Henry, really? That’s not for nothing. Did you know he had a criminal record?”

  Pendel nervously clicks around his desktop, cycling through different browser tabs, until he falls back on his social media account. There, waiting for him, is yet another DM.

  It’s in his past, Hendrix. Jerry is rehabilitated.

  The DM: Kill your idols.

  That feeling again… it’s more than a feeling of being watched. It’s a feeling of being… known.

  Hendrix isn’t so quick to discount all the allegations, “I thought I knew the guy, and maybe I did. It’s tough, attempting to hold onto the good times, and all the great books he’s written, after hearing about that pattern that sounds like a textbook sexual predator.”

  “Shouldn’t we all believe that a person is capable of change?”

  “I’m not in the mood,” the editor says. “I’m here to deliver the bad news.”

  “Seems we’ve already heard the ‘bad news.’”

  “Well, there’s more,” Hendrix says.

  Another DM: J.D. Church’s stock plummets. Publication date: Postponed.

  It’s Moyer.

  “You didn’t call me to give me bad news, did you? After all we’ve been through, and after all that I’ve done for your career… Hendrix, you didn’t just call me to give me bad news? Imagine the repercussions…”

  There’s nothing a person can do, not even someone so conditioned to feel and think of nothing except for the next benchmark of success. This is going to be a pass.

  “The publisher won’t allow it,” says Hendrix.

  “Sharpe?! Oh, let me give him a call…”

  “No! No, this was my decision,” Hendrix says. “I’m not putting in an offer. In fact, in light of what’s come up, I don’t think it’s the best time to invest so much in the J.D. Church estate. Perhaps three books a year for a decade… that might be enough shelf space for someone. Maybe it’s time for Church to be laid to rest, given a long breather.”

  Pendel can feel his heart race, the vitriol surging through his body. Through grit teeth, he says, “If you pass now, you pass on Church forever. Think carefully Hendrix. I’m giving you one last chance.”

  “It’s going to be a pass from me, Pendel,” he says. There’s no changing his mind.

  “If it’s a pass on Church, it’s a pass on my entire client list,” Pendel warns. Maybe it’s not the best idea, putting his entire list in jeopardy. Alfred A. Wolf is one of the biggest and most venerable imprints in the entire trade publishing industry. Losing that lead will cause a significant decrease in earning potential.

  The threat does receive some hesitation from Hendrix, but inevitably the editor defaults with, “It’s unfortunate that we couldn’t see eye to eye. I’ve always enjoyed working together.”

  Losing his cool, Pendel shouts, “Of course you enjoyed it: I made your career!”

  Hendrix retreats, saying his goodbyes, “Sorry I’m not calling with better news. My condolences, Henry. These last few, I don’t know how many days, have been insane.”

  The call ends.

  Pendel attempts to call back, but his attempts go unanswered.

  Another DM, Invest in an emerging author.

  It’s Moyer.

  The Church estate, an untold amount of monetary potential, hangs in the balance. Pendel must find a home for the work. If he doesn’t, it will be more than a mere financial blow to both him and Jerry’s estate; it’ll tarnish his reputation in a manner that will follow him for years. Every deal is weighed on by the agent’s previous dealings. Henry Richmond Pendel couldn’t sell J.D fucking Church?! Nope. Can’t happen.

  It’s up to that editor, the one at that indie. He traces back his email threads, finds her name, Rebecca Morrison at Concept Press. It’s time to make that call.

  “Hello, this is Rebecca?”

  “Rebecca! This is Henry Pendel.”

  There it is again, the hesitation, her response being opposite of his expectations. “Hi there, Henry.”

  “Hello! I’m calling to check in on that offer. Ticking clock! We’re getting down to the final few; I’ll be closing soon.”

  “Ah, yeah.” Here it comes… “Pendel, it’s quite the opportunity, really. When you contacted me, the inner Church fan in me screamed loudly. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Great!”

  “But then I started to believe it, seeing why a work of Church’s would make it into possible acquisitions here at Concept, I see it now. I was suspicious. Here at Concept, we’re as venerable as the Bigs, but we also understand that certain authors of a commercial magnitude are unattainable and unmanageable for an indie press. Church should be one of them. Then the marketing department saw the article in TMZ and then the one in The New York Times, and it all started to make sense. Henry, you can try all you want to persuade me but the answer’s the same: We’re passing. There’s too much baggage on this one. It sucks because I am such a fan. I’ll always enjoy what Church gave us, but on a purely business decision, there’s no way we can be host to this controversy, much less invest as much money as it would require to be the host. Thanks again, Henry, really. I hope you have a better day soon. Oh, and my condolences.”

  That’s it. Call ended.

  She hung up on him!

  Pendel sits at his desk, completely stunned. What to do now?

  How can things get any worse?

  A notification.

  It’s Alexander Moyer.

  His entire body shakes as he opens yet another DM, You should hear it first. It seems your author, Brendon Kawada, has passed away. How unfortunate. It seems he really took to heart my advice. He really bled on the page. Let it all out. A sacrifice for the sake of the story.

  Another phone call. Pendel picks up but can’t speak.

  It’s Benji, his lawyer.

  “Pendel, it’s not looking good.”

  What does Moyer know?

  Chapter 14