He remembers Mallory, right?

  Guess who, I say.

  Takes a little bit to draw out a response, but it arrives, oh it will arrive. It’ll be as plain and derivative as his DMs, Who is this?

  Duh, I say. Are you saying you deleted her number?

  It would be understandable. Though she is technically one of his clients, one of his authors, Pendel and McAllister have silently distanced themselves in the last few years. In line with her departure from the city for Long Island, McAllister carries a knot of hurt and betrayal that could have only come from someone close.

  Pendel should have apologized, but he isn’t the sort of person who can see both sides of a tragic encounter. All that history, McAllister’s career made and potentially broken by Pendel, and yet it truly comes apart with a miscommunication, Pendel lacking finesse when telling McAllister that her work no longer has the capacity to sell.

  I’m blocking you, whoever this is. MOYER.

  He’s getting defensive, but I’ve got the perfect retort. Oh, I wouldn’t if I were you. You know Mallory, she’s got a lot to say about you.

  That’ll get him, and any attempt at gleaning any additional information will just leave him spiraling. An offering to join the workshop, this time with directions.

  Better get going, I tell him. We’ll be starting the workshop soon.

  Pendel has a drive from midtown Manhattan through to Long Island.

  Author Mallory McAllister’s house is in every way a perfect setting for a workshop. It is pristine, a sanctuary built around family and solace. From the walls adorned with pictures and paintings, to the fact that every square inch of space in the house has been defined by its members, to the lived-in look and odors, this is the McAllister home, and I can do nothing less than compliment her on such a great home.

  “Really, it’s something. This is a home away from all that hurt,” I say. “You’ve done well.”

  Pearl follows me into the kitchen, where I proceed to lay out everything I may need for the upcoming workshop.

  “Home alone? Everyone else at work or school?”

  She follows me into the kitchen, her attention instantly on the knife, the same blade that has made so many edits. “Yeah…”

  “That’s nice. Everyone staying busy. Gives you some peace and quiet to write during the day, huh?”

  Approaching the kitchen counter, she reaches for the knife.

  “It’s okay, you can hold it,” I say. “We both need to feel comfortable if we’re going to have a productive workshop.”

  I refill the dog’s food dish, the hefty bag of kibble hoisted over my left forearm as the circular kernels clatter into the metal dish. The dog looks at me and wags her tail before proceeding to devour the food.

  McAllister holds the knife, testing the sharpness of the blade with her index finger.

  “I take my craft seriously,” I say.

  She nods, “I can tell.”

  You’ve got to appreciate an author who is willing to take a risk; go with him rather than make a whole fuss about how they factor into the story. McAllister’s experienced; she has written about a wide range of topics, everything from coming-of-age to the human condition. What use is fear if it prevents you from a full understanding of what’s at stake?

  I sit down at the head of the dinner table.

  McAllister sets the knife down and joins me.

  I lean forward, feeling even more excited than initially expected, “So, what are you working on?”

  She sits there, shoulders slumped, “Nothing.” She lets out a deep sigh, “What’s the point?”

  “The point is creating a body of work,” I say. “The point is creativity, everything that makes it onto the page. The point is leaving a lasting mark, one that forces people to look at what you’ve created, demanding not only a reading but also some understanding.”

  She remains downcast and lifeless, her voice stuck in a distinct monotone, “That’s your opinion. No two authors are alike.”

  McAllister has let her failures win, leaving her talent as a storyteller to atrophy in a self-appointed prison sentence. Her reputation in the industry may be marred due to low sales, and her own impression of her author career tarnished to the point of having become traumatic, yet it was McAllister who chose to leave the ranks of authors, stepping aside from the ever-bustling concourse of literary events and conferences to become miserable in this house.

  “You had a bad run of books,” I say. “It shouldn’t prevent you from attempting to write a better book. That’s the beauty of a story: Where one ends, there exists an opening for another to begin. You have fans. They’ve been waiting for years. They want a new story from you.”

  That gets her attention, “Huh, I can’t stand social media, the internet, whatever. It gives me severe anxiety.”

  “You got fans. They have been waiting for a new book.”

  “Yeah, well, that new book didn’t sell. Worse, I wrote another book, and my agent couldn’t even bother to look at it. He’s put me on a blacklist, signed but insignificant.”

  Here’s my opportunity. Besides, for this story to be perfect, she’s going to have to choose a side. One must become the villain, and the other must become the victim.

  “Who’s your agent?”

  I can see how much she hates saying his name. And I’ll mirror her distaste, saying something about how he’s got a reputation for being mean and bullish, always getting what he wants, to which she’ll agree, but offer yet another nugget of insight. He ranks his authors, offering preferential treatment to the ones that yield him the best sales.

  If I were jaded, I’d be inclined to say that every agent ranks their authors, but I want dear Mallory on my side. I must look like yet another victim of Pendel’s wrath. This must look like vengeance, a shared opportunity for her and me to get him back.

  I text him, ETA?

  Text bubble, followed by nothing. He’s so flustered he can’t even type correctly.

  15 minutes.

  “Great!” I wave the phone in the air, “Our guest will be here soon!”

  Chapter 6

  Pendel instructs the driver to let him out a block and a half from the route’s destination. Leaving the driver a big tip ensures that they will be less likely to remember driving Pendel to the proposed location. He’s nervous, and there are plenty of reasons to feel this way. His legs feel heavy, each step dragging and prolonged; labored breaths lead to further panic as he reaches the house. He recognizes the vehicle parked in the driveway.

  Turn around and leave.

  Maybe it’s not too late.

  Mal…

  No, the story is already in progress.

  Pendel walks up the front steps. At the door he takes a moment, just one second, to stop and feel, no distractions or text messages or multiple threads of thought all to do with deal negotiations, who wronged who, and what is next on the to-do list. He just… feels. Feels a deep burrowing sadness, not unlike what he felt when his sister died nearly a decade ago. And it’s too much, too tender and vulnerable to take on, so he pushes it back down, the feeling that this is the last time he’ll recognize himself, and he knocks on the door.

  Moyer answers the door. He excitedly reaches for his arm and pulls him inside: “Pendel, come, come, inside! We’re ready to get started!”

  He joins Mallory at the kitchen table.

  Moyer waves the knife in the air, “Today’s workshop, you see, we couldn’t proceed without you.” He inspects the edge of the blade. “You see, Mal’s story here, it’s incomplete.”

  Pendel doesn’t say a word. For once, he understands where the story is going.

  “Mal has had quite a career,” he says, sitting down at the head of the table. Hands folded, he dons the role of a figurative professor, “Ahem, but a career is more than bylines and publications, am I right?” When Pendel doesn’t say anything, Moyer chuckles, “You think I can’t pry the story out of you? It reads better if you speak freely.” Moyer looks around the table, “We’re all here of our own free will!”

  Pendel doesn’t say a word. It’s how there are no restraints and nobody is bound against their free will, which proves to Pendel that maybe he wants this to happen. After so many years of dodging and defense, being a workaholic and egomaniac, what he wanted most was to be punished.

  “Mal was talented,” Moyer continues. “She was… past tense. I speak in the past because you see, something was indeed taken from her. She had a few wins and many losses, but she was acclaimed. Her peers enjoyed her writing and best of all, she was a literary citizen. A damn good one. She ran multiple reading series in the city, offered workshops, and even helped teach emerging authors from inner city high schools. Mal did it all, and she did it for the right reason: She wanted to help. Yet how this story goes, shifting from present to past, it had everything to do with mismanagement.”

  Pendel exhales deeply, “Yes I know.”

  “Of course, you know!” Moyer laughs, “But you didn’t want to tell it, and now, it’s too late. It’s too late for this story, but hey, there are still a few chapters left. Maybe you’ll get to make a few edits?” Moyer thinks about this and then drives the blade into the wooden table. When he lets go of the sheath, it stands tall on its own. “To continue, the topic is mismanagement. Mal here, she had the best agent in the business. Maybe he still is; that’s all up in the air, right Pendel?”

  Again, Moyer attempts to get a rise out of Pendel.

  Pendel remains silent.

  Moyer grins, “This agent, he had ranked her in his personal little hierarchy of favored clients as in his top three. He would answer her text, email, call, anything in moments, no matter the time of day or night. It got to a point where she began to rely on his wisdom, and then his attention, before finally no longer being able to function as an author without Pendel’s daily texts and calls. We all know this story, don’t we?”

  The room is silent.

  Pearl whimpers.

  “Need more food? Maybe some water?” Moyer dares him to fetch some more kibble, maybe a treat. “Be quick about it, Pendel.”

  This could be his moment. The part of the story where Pendel attempts an attack, or texts someone, anyone, maybe he dials 911. Instead, the moment of courage passes so quickly. The dog is given more food, some water, and a rawhide, which she enjoys, jumping up and down as he pulls it from its wrapper and hands it to the dog. She runs into the next room; Pendel sits back down at the table.

  “Mal became codependent,” Moyer says, now in a near whisper. “She was manipulated to the point that when this agent landed a hot shot author, none other than J.D. Church, suddenly Mal became lost in the shuffle. Imagine the emotional whiplash of going from having a person you trusted with both your most personal thoughts and your career to… them ghosting your every message.”

  Moyer points at the knife.

  Mallory leaves her seat. Reaching for the blade, she stops and looks to Moyer for approval. He nods once, giving her the go-ahead.

  “She finished a book,” Moyer continues his tale. “It could have been great, and it was in many ways her best. It felt like a breakthrough.”

  Mallory approaches her agent, knife held tight in both of her hands. She lowers the blade, pointing it at his chest.

  “The manuscript is the book her fans have been waiting for, a novel about half the world’s population dropping dead, and how those, the HALF that remain, deal with a world cut down the middle. It had the makings of a harrowing tale of post-apocalyptic fiction, and she was so excited. Yet when she sent it to her agent, expecting his honest and kind feedback, what she got instead was a deafening blow.”

  She drives the blade into his chest, narrowly missing any major organs.

  “It was a deafening blow to both her confidence and her creativity,” says Moyer. “And then her agent proceeds to tell her that he cannot sell the book, or any of her books, that she is no longer saleable as an author.”

  The blade still lodged in his chest, Mallory’s entire body begins to shake, reliving the traumatic events while Moyer tells it.

  “And if that wasn’t enough, the agent blacklists her, giving her busywork, telling her to write this book and that book, only to never do anything with the many finished manuscripts that dear Mal tirelessly wrote on deadline.”

  Pulling the blade from his chest, Pendel finally speaks, a nonsensical flurry of gasps and groans.

  “Great of you to offer your opinion,” Moyer chuckles. “But that won’t be necessary. So many deadlines. As an author myself, I couldn’t even imagine. It’s why I’ve taken matters into my own hands.” He points at her, “And taught her that the one thing she has control over is how the story is told.”

  Pendel presses his palm firmly against the wound, feeling the blood pour out warm before turning cold.

  “How many deadlines were there, huh Mal?”

  She takes the knife and goes in for another strike.

  Moyer shouts, “No!”

  She stops mid-strike, the tip of the blade mere inches from Pendel’s neck.

  “One stab is enough,” Moyer says, standing up from his seat. “No wonder.” He walks over to her, “You do have that tendency to overwrite.”

  Moyer grabs the knife, wipes it clean on the sleeve of her shirt. He grabs her by the neck, Mallory choking against his grip, and shoves her back down in her seat. “Time out.”

  “Let me show you how I work,” he says, turning his attention back to the wounded agent. “By the time we finish, you’ll be such an important part of the story; it won’t be complete without you at the center of it.”

  Chapter 7

  Dear Mallory should get her moment of vengeance. From one author to another, I let her take my knife and give back a little bit of that pain. Just having a little fun, you know? Let the defeated author have her shot. It’s good therapy, and it works double because it helps break Pendel down into pieces. Maybe it’ll be enough for him to finally let his guard down.

  But this is still my story to tell, not hers. She gets her little moment, and then I get things straight—her bound to the seat—and she doesn’t even struggle.

  Pendel won’t be too difficult to keep, Mallory’s stab wound rendering him defenseless. Yet he’s all chatter, fighting through the pain like saying anything now will change anything.

  “How’s that? Tight enough?”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  I’m frankly surprised at how willing she is, enough that I need to ask, “And you’re okay? You’re fine with this?”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Oh you can give me more than that, Mal,” I say.

  She looks over at Pendel.

  “Hush, we’ll get to him,” I say, clapping my hands together. “You liked how it felt, didn’t you, getting a chance to hurt your agent? You like how easy it was to hurt him, that blade just so effortlessly cutting deep into his chest?”

  She nods, “Yeah, I liked it.”

  “You liked it so much that you wanted to strike him a second time,” I say, inching closer to the matter at hand. If the story is going to work, I need this author to play along. McAllister needs to sacrifice her life freely. “Am I right?”

  “Yeah,” she says, coming down from the adrenaline. Her eyelids are heavy, shoulders and arms hanging low. “You’re right.”

  “Stay awake now,” I say, giving her a slap. “The workshop’s begun!”

  Dear Mallory is restrained to the dining chair with zip ties, wrists clamped to the armrest, ankles bound together, more for her sake than mine. The body can withstand a lot of punishment, yet it often is its own worst enemy. Like the human mind, it winces and withers against the possibilities; every stab, cut, and suture causes physical trauma that can result in dear Mallory’s body giving in sooner than expected, and we really don’t want that.

  The story needs to trim away all but the bold choices, Mal’s final stance, and what will become this—an act of sabotage. Because that’s what I’ll need to ensure that Pendel doesn’t get any ideas. He’s full of it, untrustworthy, the gamut of all things that I despise. I’ve taken it personally for too long; now’s the time to take it straight to the vein.

  First prompt: “Mal, what part would you like to cut first?”

  The way she examines her body, eying her chest, and then her arms, followed by her hair hanging over her face, she doesn’t waste any time. “The face, start with the face. I would like to be unrecognizable.”

  “That’s bold,” I say. And once again, “Are you sure?”

  She is.

  “So be it.”

  A little incision starting from behind the ear, removing the cartilage and skin; there isn’t a lot of blood, not at first. By the time I’m removing the other ear, the blood trail becomes visible. After the ears, next comes the nose.

  Right before I aim for a swift removal, I ask her again, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you ready?”

  She nods.

  This edit proves to be much more severe and debilitating than the previous, enough that she starts to cry and whimper.

  “Doesn’t matter how tough our skin is,” I say. “Some edits really hurt.”

  Her face is a sheet of red. Already, McAllister is barely recognizable.

  Second prompt: “Mal, what do you think is overwritten?”

  It takes her a little to form her feedback, “I think… the fingers… toes.”

  So be it. This time, there are no warning shots, no pausing to see if she’s primed for the next painful cut. I go for all ten fingers and thumbs, cutting one after the other in such swift succession that the nerve endings don’t have enough time to register each removal. I’m two steps ahead by the time she starts passing out from the pain.

  Another slap, and she’s awake.

  “Every cut and every slice, we do in the name of who?”

  “My agent,” she says.

  “Your agent,” I say, glaring at him, slumped over on the floor, voice already hoarse from all his begging, his confession muted, neither her nor I are willing enough to listen.