Detective Monroe maintains his poker face, letting Pendel talk himself into a corner.

  “After recent events and breaking news, I have prepared as accurate a⁠—”

  Monroe interrupts, “Those allegations are very disappointing. I was a big fan. There’s a lot of noise surrounding the case. I’m here to talk about the death of Jerimiah Church, Brendon Kawada, and…” he checks his notes. “Chelsea Boll. Your clients.”

  It’s not like last time.

  Pendel has become a person of interest. After so many years of being the one with the power and ability to intimidate, Pendel feels the shift, suddenly he’s on the defense, the foundation he built breaking apart as he struggles to keep it together.

  “Okay, understood. Well, I’m an open book.”

  Monroe crosses his arms, “Last time we spoke, you discussed the importance of maintaining a professional and equal relationship with your clients.”

  Pendel nods, “I did, yes. It’s important.”

  “Okay, well, how do you account for the text messages we’ve found in this,” he reveals another phone, “Church’s cell phone.”

  Pendel’s flustered, “I don’t know. I was drunk. I, umm…”

  “I’ll read them for you,” says the detective. He takes a moment to retrieve the text thread. “There’s a whole back and forth here, late at night, lots of discussion about book deals and death. Some banter about an author’s legacy… and, here we go.” Detective Monroe pauses and then reads with a slight inflection in his voice, “‘I’ll leave behind enough projects to ensure a healthy posthumous career.’ To which you reply, ‘That’s why you’re my favorite client!’”

  Monroe looks up from the phone, gazing intimidatingly into Pendel’s eyes.

  Pendel does his best to maintain a sense of calm. In his left hand, he texts Marina, “Come in here now. I need out of this stupid interrogation.” She replies, “What do I say?” He texts a quick, “Anything. Lie!”

  Pendel sighs, “Wow, I have no recollection of that exchange.”

  “Is that so,” the detective says. “Do you feel like your drinking has gotten out of control recently?”

  Marina walks into the office, “Mr. Pendel! Hey, sorry. Umm, something’s come up.”

  “What is it? I’m in the middle of something,” Pendel says, gesturing to the detective.

  “It’s Becky, she’s on the phone.”

  There’s his out, a near escape.

  “Oh my, I see,” he says, doing his best to act sympathetic. “Well, umm…” Putting the detective on the spot: “Were we almost done here or?”

  Detective Monroe isn’t easily duped. He’s seen this movie before. Shallow decoy to delay a guilty suspect’s inevitable destruction. Alright, the detective plays along. The delay will give him enough time to piece more of it together. Besides, Monroe isn’t the one that’ll continue to unravel, defeated slowly yet surely by a vicious onslaught of guilt and anxiety.

  Detective Monroe grins, “Nothing we can’t pick up at a later date.”

  Pendel gets a stay of execution.

  Chapter 3

  Ride the height of a brand-new day. I enjoy a leisurely stroll through the suburbs of Long Island. The safety net of a home and a local community is what so many people here are buying into, and I kind of love it, the idea of settling down, no longer in the hustle of being seen; rather, you’ve felt the highs and lows of a career, and it’s now about building a sanctuary for when the traumas of your younger years, your ambitious years, flare up and what you need most is a hug from a loved one, an honest moment disengaged from the furor of the outside world.

  I’m a tourist, tapping into this energy.

  “Morning,” I say, offering a little wave.

  She doesn’t recognize me, and why should she?

  The dog runs across the front yard, up to the sidewalk to sniff me. His snout presses against my black boots, the once-over continuing up my legs when finally, the dog seems to get a scent and his tail begins to wag. I pet the top of his head lightly, a little rub behind the ears.

  “What’s his name?”

  The owner walks up to me, “She. Her name is Pearl.”

  “Aww,” I grin, lowering to a crouch. “She’s adorable. You’re adorable, aren’t you? Such a good dog. A good dog.”

  My attention may appear to be on the dog but really, I’ve been down this block over a dozen times. The other night I sat in a car rental, watching from the other side of the street as she, acclaimed author Mallory McAllister, and her husband ate dinner, followed by their usual falling asleep in front of the TV. The simple routines become the most comforting.

  My attention has been on every detail. My approach has everything to do with the author standing before me. McAllister has published a dozen books and has written twice that number. Though she had early success, her career has been in decline, every new book receiving a smaller advance before eventually her last novel, The Haunting at Dusk, was sold to a new indie press for just under $2k. McAllister has always been a writer’s writer, each novel being completely different from the one before. With such range, McAllister has developed a cult following. Yet she doesn’t do many readings or literary events. In the last three years, she moved to Long Island to focus entirely on her two kids and her craft. It helps to have a partner with a successful meat packing business to help build that safe place. McAllister just finished her latest book, Half, and it’s different. Give it up to the time and space, or perhaps her finally accepting what she cannot control, particularly the various moving parts of the publishing industry, the preference for sales and accolades, and her long-kept bitterness carried along through the years. The noise gets pushed aside and, in its place, she has finally started to understand what keeps her motivated and inspired.

  “Hi there,” I say, turning my attention to McAllister. She looks exhausted. “Beautiful weather we’re having, huh?”

  She yawns, “Hi, yeah. It’s great.”

  “Works well for the mind, all this sunshine,” I say. Pearl whines, demanding more pets. “Hey, she really likes me.”

  McAllister’s turn for chit-chat, “Out for a stroll, huh?”

  I nod, “That’s what I’m doing!”

  She chuckles, “I always plan on a walk, but I can never wake up in time.”

  “Not a morning person,” I say.

  “How can you tell?” She lets out another yawn.

  “Well, I’m not much of a night person,” I say.

  “Yeah, well,” she trails off.

  We both look down at the dog, my hand still petting her soft fur.

  “You live around here?”

  Right on time, I smile, knowing where this will take us. First steps, the baby steps, I’ll tell her that I live in the next neighborhood over, one called Glenfalls, which I have also traversed, plotting out how the next chapter of the story unfolds. I’ll tell her the superficial details of what it looks like to come off as a kindhearted neighbor: architect, commutes into the city (yeah, it’s exhausting), long-term partner but not married, thinking about getting a dog (attention once again given to Pearl), no kids, but my partner has been thinking about it, could stand to lose a few pounds (the comment receives a genuine laugh).

  When it comes down to a name, I don’t need to hide, not this far into the story.

  “Alex,” I say. “Alex Moyer.”

  “Nice to meet you, Alex.” She matches the cadence of my introduction: “Mal. Mal McAllister.”

  She’s shortened her name, a soft dodge of sorts, because an author two decades into her career, she’s beginning to undersell her craft, choosing instead to be simply Mal, a person. A neighbor. But I’m here specifically to draw out an author.

  “Mal…” Play out a slow realization, putting the names together, and then, “Mallory McAllister?” Pause, for impact, note her slight discomfort. “Like the author. Mallory McAllister. You’re not the same, are you? Wait…” Then I’m narrowing my gaze, because McAllister has plenty of author photos, pictures of her on panels and in interviews. “You’re… no way.”

  She takes a step back, her body tensing up, “Yeah, the same.”

  “What are the chances… My Time in the Heartland is one of my all-time favorites!”

  Normally an author loves attention. Normally meeting a fan of their work is tantamount to seeing their work come alive. It’s worth all the effort it takes to complete the story.

  McAllister isn’t one of those authors. She freezes up, almost physically uncomfortable while I chatter on about my favorite parts of the book, how it changed my life. None of that is true, mind you, but boy do I enjoy seeing her squirm.

  Who did this to you, made you this way? An author fearing attention, shying away from their fans, is an author traumatized by the machinations of an industry designed to capitalize on their work.

  “You know I’m a bit of an author myself,” I say.

  That gets her attention.

  “Yeah? That’s great,” she says. “Come on, Pearl.”

  “Oh, but Pearl isn’t done getting her pets,” I say, grinning.

  “Pearl,” she whistles. “Side!”

  She raises her hand, the command to join her, yet Pearl remains at my feet, my hand stroking the back of her ear.

  “The dog’s on my side, not yours, Mallory.”

  “Wait, what?”

  It’s right around here that the author begins to understand that I’m writing myself into her story. This encounter was deliberate, right down to our subsequent discussion over some tea. “What have you been working on since you ran away and hid from an entire literary community?” She still has her hand raised, palm out, when I approach, grabbing her with some force. “Actually, let’s go inside. We don’t want to talk about such a sensitive topic where others may hear, you know?”

  The dog comes along, and we step inside the hermetic author’s abode, a lived-in safe space that will soon be the site of my next workshop.

  Today, I get to see it for myself.

  Chapter 4

  Marina wasn’t lying. That widow is on the line. Pendel just can’t get a break. He sees the detective out and brings in yet another pain in his ass, a potential sore point for his reputation and forthcoming career. Marina looks concerned, “Do you need me to tell her you’ll call back or…?”

  He shakes his head, “I got it.” A deep exhale, this has all been so exhausting. “Thank you, Marina.”

  Before leaving, she turns to ask him, “When was the last time you left the office?”

  He blinks, no answer to give. Time has run together. The office itself has become his cage, or maybe the truth is he cannot stand the thought of venturing into public, not with what’s happened.

  “You have to take care of yourself,” Marina says.

  “Thank you,” he says, when really his tone registers as you may now leave.

  “Yeah,” she says. Marina cares far more than her pay grade. She’ll return with clothes, shirts still in their store packaging, folded pairs of pants clipped and pristine; she will bring him takeout, ensuring that he eats. The care is undeserved. Pendel didn’t ask, and if he could see this from the outside looking in, he would agree: Someone like him doesn’t deserve such care and compassion. Everything that’s happening is a consequence of his actions. It was only a matter of time.

  When he’s once again alone in his office, he picks up the phone, returning to that trained voice, ready to receive Becky’s anger.

  “Hello Becky,” he says. “How are you faring?”

  Much to his surprise, she doesn’t come out spitting hate. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t. They have taken his name and turned him into a costume, a thing people can put on and brandish as an example of cruelty.” She sobs, “When really, they are the ones being cruel! He was a loving father, and I know he loved me. What he did… I still can’t believe it, but that’s not him. That’s not the Jerry I know and loved. He must have lost himself to his demons, his writer’s ego; they say he did all these horrible things to women, his students, yet what about the punishment he has already endured for crimes he’s committed? Jerry wrote from a place of darkness, and the same people who loved his words now condemn him.”

  Pendel agrees, “They should be remembering him for the work he gave us, not the dark past that he has already atoned for.”

  It’s something he said. Becky raises her voice, “Oh, don’t you fucking start!”

  “Hey now…”

  “I’m not calling for your sympathies! I’m calling because I’m legally obligated to do so in accordance with the lawsuit I am filing against you.”

  “Lawsuit…” Pendel starts laughing. “You can’t be serious, really?”

  He isn’t laughing at her, rather at the circumstances. What else can go wrong? Well, how about this: “Oh, you think this is funny?”

  There isn’t enough time to explain himself, “No, I wasn’t⁠—”

  “Yeah, well let’s see if you think it’s funny when the same people condemning my husband realize that his agent motivated him to be the disgusting person he became.”

  “How are you going to prove it?” There’s the Pendel everyone knows and fears. The moment she tries to threaten him, Pendel lashes out, becoming the same vicious negotiator that an entire industry has become receipt to and unpleasantly familiar with. “In fact, what you’re saying is so far out of reach, I’m frankly surprised any lawyer would believe that you have a case.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. Dear me, you will regret that laughter.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” Pendel believes there can be no case. It’s the work of a shady lawyer, someone who sees the dollar signs and will surely bleed the widower dry. Maybe the lawyer sees an opportunity, all the media attention only benefits him as the lawyer representing the plaintiff in a case as tragic as it is disgusting. Well, for the defendant, anyway. Pendel is on the losing end, no matter what happens. He’ll lose money; he’s already lost money. He’ll have his name and reputation smeared… though again, that too is inching closer to a reality. And then there’s the matter of his own personal worth, which was always based on the magnitude of deals he amassed. He keeps his mind set on the fallout of J.D. Church, the loss of that lucrative book deal, and how poor it’ll look on his agenting abilities when it gets out that nobody, not even the small presses, dare put in an offer for exclusivity to the entire J.D. Church unpublished estate.

  “You’re a monster, you know that?” Becky can’t stay angry. She’s too much of a wreck to meet Pendel with the same unyielding determination. “You don’t care at all about your authors. You use them and abuse them and manipulate them for the sake of your own enjoyment. I’d say you were in need of help, but a person needs to recognize that need before anything can be done.”

  The call ends. Pendel believes he came out on top. She has no basis for such an outlandish claim. That widower is processing her grief and lashing out at the people who have her and her late husband in their best interest. If anything, she should be asking Pendel for help. What needs to be done to ensure that Jerry’s name is unscathed?

  Somewhere deep in that inbox of his, there are emails sent and received between Pendel and Church, where they chat about book-business related items, yet peppered throughout, some exchanges have images attached. In some, there’s a rating system, out of five, five being a stone cold hottie I’d like to fuck or a SCHILF. The rating is supplanted with a review from both he and Church, followed by the steadily increasing implication that the young women in these pictures aren’t being rated merely for their attractiveness; they’re being scouted, Pendel encouraging Church’s fragile ego to pursue his students. In numerous instances, Pendel lives vicariously through Church’s mayhem, and there are some emails where Church isn’t sure if he should, yet Pendel pressures him to go through with it or else he is a loser or a coward.

  The most damning line in their correspondence: If I were you, I’d do them all. No one would even say no. They all want to be with a genius.

  Pendel never finds the emails because something demands his full attention. Another email, the first in what feels like weeks, from one Alexander Moyer. Subject line: Workshopping. Pendel’s heart beating in his chest, the feeling’s the same. It was him. It was him all along. Everything falls into place.

  Dear Mr. Pendel,

  By now, you should have figured it all out. It’s a shame you didn’t join me for the last workshops… but good news is I’m about to begin my latest workshop! You should join me.

  An address, additional details, and best of all, an attachment, a picture of what looks to be a mouth taped shut. The title of the jpeg, “MalsManuscript.”

  Mal.

  Pendel looks at the image and then the email a second time and then it clicks. The email, it says it all. He’s got him! The proof he needs, right there in plain language.

  Pendel whispers, “Got you now, motherfucker.”

  Chapter 5

  Of course, he’ll think he has the upper hand. My email being the slipup that begins my inevitable capture. Yet he doesn’t yet know what’s at stake. He doesn’t know who he’s about to see again, after all this time.

  Give him a few minutes to feel like he’s going to be okay. Better than okay. Give him 10 minutes, and he’ll think he’s a hero. Reputation fully restored. But I won’t give him 15, because then he might think he’s still got a chance.

  No. I’ve had enough time in the shadows. The moment has come, the part of the story where the two protagonists meet.

  It won’t be a follow-up email. Rather, he’ll get a text message. So unexpected, the number quite familiar. Who else? Why of course, it’s Mallory!