We got so much left to edit.

  Third prompt: “Mal? Mal? Okay, if you had one last thing you’d change, what would it be? Take your time. You don’t need to rush…” I notice the pool of blood at her feet. “Though maybe we should be a tad bit hasty.”

  Her reply will arrive. It will arrive and it’ll come from the depths of the pain she’s felt all these years. “I wish I never signed with…”

  “Ah,” I snap my fingers. Loud and clear. I’ll translate that to Pendel; you get to watch me take yet another client of yours, another mark against your name. These are people, not products. Authors are vulnerable to every single stage of the publishing process, and yet the one there designed to shield and deflect, aid and honor a safe and healthy professional relationship, failed this author. Dear Mallory, she is in such physical pain, but at least she no longer has to worry about dealing with the trauma.

  Taking her feedback in stride, my editing involves the trimming of skin. It’s easiest where the skin has some slack, soft and youthful. I’ll do my best to trim her down until we see the person, the reality underneath.

  Pendel has so much to say, but who is really listening?

  Trimming skin from her face proves to be the toughest.

  And then she’s done, a body in half, brittle to the bone. There’s still a pulse, just barely.

  I lean in and whisper, “Thank you, Mal. We found your half.”

  She can now expire, give into the sweet relief of her final few breaths. She got what he deserves, and no that isn’t a typo. Her body became the full exposé of what he inflicted upon her, and my, my, it’s a horror story.

  Mallory McAllister may not get any new book deals, but by way of collaborating with me, she got her chance to make a lasting impact.

  This is the latest addition to my body of work. I’m finally seeing all my efforts pay off. And soon, I’ll find representation.

  Chapter 8

  Pendel fights through the pain, yet there’s not much he can do. His body fails to cooperate; lifting an arm means enduring a punishing wave of agony so intense that he loses all sense, vision blurring. The lone sense that never fails is the one that he would desire to be muted or made silent. He hears them, two separate voices, Moyer and… Mal. Of course, how could he forget? Why does he forget everyone? Pendel struggles with the pain like he struggles with understanding why he can be so neglectful. Yet there can be no revelation, only the pain of the stab wound dominates every thought. Attempting to stand up, his knees buckle, and he crashes to the hardwood floor shoulder-first. Every feeling amplified, inspiring him to give it one more chance. He makes another attempt to move, only to see that his body refuses any forward movement. There on the floor, he can just barely get onto his hands and knees before the wound once again calls to him, demanding that he coil his arms, pushing against the lifeblood pouring out from his chest. Defenseless, he concentrates on every breath.

  Mal, what part would you like to cut first?

  Hearing Moyer, he tenses up, and all that emotional weight unacknowledged suddenly releases, as though Moyer’s own inquiry triggers his years of denial to finally, here and now, as he bleeds into his lap, to shatter and become a time for confession.

  “I…” His voice cracks. “I am your agent, Mal. I was always your agent. My words spoke louder than any actions, and for that I’m sorry. Really, I’m so sorry, Mal. Please don’t hurt her. Please! Don’t, no!”

  But it happens, ears and nose removed.

  He sees her face, the dark hole where her nose had been, and he launches into a fit of anger: “You fucker! You’re going down for this. I have those emails, and I have those messages. I’ve screencapped them! I know your name and I have every single email dating all the way back to your original query. I have your response to my passing on representation, and I even have your socials, all your fake alt-accounts, recorded. My lawyer is building a case, collecting all the data, connecting the dots! You’re done, you do know that? The end goal for you isn’t some author career, it’s a jail cell. It’s having you incarcerated somewhere where the death penalty doesn’t exist, so you get to waste away in prison for the rest of your life! You’ll waste away, and I’ll make sure that you won’t get to write a single word. Even if you somehow pull some Marquis de Sade shit, writing on toilet paper or whatever, I’ll make sure that nothing you ever put to the page will get out. No one will read a word. Your story will be forgotten! You are nothing, worthless, a complete piece of shit!”

  His verbal attacks seem to hit a wall. Neither Moyer nor Mal pays him any attention. This causes a sudden change of heart, a complete flipping of emotions. Pendel feels the beads of sweat drip down from his forehead. He can’t lift his arms, the pain altogether overwhelming; the sweat gets into his eyes, the sting of each bead blackening his vision temporarily.

  “Look, you don’t need to do this. An author goes through a lot, but violence is never the answer. You must think I’m some kind of ogre, some beast that can literally change the course of publishing, like I can actively get any editor to take a manuscript and break an author into the big time. You must think I have some kind of sway, enough clout to take your manuscript and give you what you think you deserve. And hey, even if you do deserve it, I’m just saying I can’t do shit. What I wheel and deal is negotiation, impression, and reputation. All I can do is get the manuscript into the hands of editors. They are the ones that make the choices. They have to fall in love with the book, and even if they do, they still need to go to the marketing department, make a case for both the book and the author for a potentially lucrative sale. I’m just an agent; I know where the right doors are, but I can’t open them.”

  Mal, what do you think is overwritten?

  Pendel’s vision returns in time to see her fingers systematically removed. Something breaks inside of him, and his mind begins to spin. Suddenly, he feels it all, the intentional sabotage he inflicted upon Mallory McAllister.

  “Oh god, oh god, why? Mal. Mallory, it’s true. What I did. It’s all true. You were an author that I liked; your work yes, but I also liked you. I don’t think I understood the extent of my feelings for you. I think it started with completely understanding the emotional depth, so dark yet honest, in your writing, and then it meshed so well with you, as a person. As my author, I became protective and then later possessive. It wasn’t because I wanted to sabotage your career. I stopped giving you all that attention when I got scared. I believed that maybe I got too close, and that’s one of the biggest rules an agent must abide by: Keep it all professional. I got too close and then went cold. It was me, not you. Never you. Then I couldn’t stomach working on any of your projects, couldn’t even speak to others about you, and when I did, I found myself speaking ill of you, as though I’d rather talk low of you. It hurt me to see that I’d choose to push one of my other authors rather than you. And when I saw that one email, you know the one, the one where you blamed me and said that you’re done writing… well, I couldn’t take the blame. I simply could not accept accountability. And so I made sure that your work never went anywhere. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to your fans. I’m sorry to your work. I’m sorry that Half didn’t find a publisher. I’m so, so sorry…”

  During his final and complete confession, Moyer carves away at McAllister’s body, pulling bit by bit enough skin until she becomes unrecognizable. The manner with which he removes each portion, it looks as though he’s practiced. This Moyer isn’t acting on impulse; he has planned this, perhaps even further than Pendel could anticipate.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m sorry…”

  He can’t hold on much longer, the dreamless blanket of unconsciousness culling the trauma of what he just witnessed. And then something, or rather someone, denies him that comfort. It’s Moyer applying unwanted pressure to the wound.

  “Apology not accepted.”

  Chapter 9

  Pendel is in pieces; now it is my responsibility to rebuild him into a villain adequate enough for this story. The pieces are all over the hardwood floor, a body and bloodshed that amounts to something. He’s going to wonder, and he’s going to wither a little, and that’s perfectly okay. As intended, he’ll play his role.

  I help him to his feet, directing him to the nearby couch. We’ll have to do something about that stab wound. He winces as I position his body, arms across his chest, legs lengthened outwardly in a coffin pose.

  “Good news for you,” I say. “I brought everything we need to move on to the next scene.” This includes a medical suture kit, disinfectant, and dressings for the wound. I make sure to show him every step, “See, I came prepared!”

  There was going to be a stab wound, just like there was going to be another edit. This was the only way to get under his skin, tapping into the vein. He wouldn’t have broken if I hadn’t brought him to a point of regret. Look at how he acted, his full confession: Pendel had feelings for Mallory. It only takes one to win; that’s what they say, right?

  Agents and other confidants to an emerging author, it only takes one! Just one editor, one person in power, to see your story and raise it to a new level.

  Just like Pendel here, my agent needs just one author, one single author, to give him what he needs to not only survive but also flourish, a reputation that will glimmer and glow.

  “Took you long enough,” I say, knowing well that he can’t speak. “Took you long enough to put the pieces together. I’ve been around since the initial query. You’re so easy to find. Being a public figure, you’re searchable, your home address, work, everything.”

  Pouring the disinfectant on the wound, I hold him down as he kicks and groans. The flesh around the wound has begun to change color, that trademark reddish-purple, evidence of the internal pain made physical, something he needed for a long time.

  After the sting comes the relief, “Better?”

  He groans.

  “FYI, I’ve never sewn a wound shut, so cut me some slack.”

  There’s the needle and… thread? It’s so much like sewing a garment, flesh once again being merged together, forcibly becoming a single patch, a bond broken being reintroduced. I take my time with it, wiping away excess blood.

  “We’re going to get you back into working shape,” I say.

  Over, under, it all comes together. All that’s left is the dressing and he’s given a chance to sleep it all off. I sit there watching as he falls asleep. When he starts breathing heavily, I can’t help but smile. Give him a little kiss on the forehead and then wipe away the mark. Can’t be too careful. Back in the kitchen I take pictures of it, additions to my body of work. These will do nicely for the memories. Didn’t get a chance to take pictures of some of the others, but thankfully the most important workshop gives me more time to settle in and enjoy the euphoria of the aftermath. His phone continues to light up, so I play the role of second assistant. Nothing I haven’t done before. Some messages from an author, name doesn’t matter.

  “Henry, I need to talk.”

  When the author doesn’t get a reply, they follow one text message with 15, all of them part of the world-building needed for the next act. Lots of talk about the good that Pendel did, opening doors, book deals, some film options, followed by all the minuscule fumbles, the lack of communication, the periodic stints where the author failed to hear back from Pendel. It’s a damning indictment if what you find damning is utter mediocrity.

  “Look, I’ve been talking to my friends and to my therapist and this is all giving me so much anxiety. It’s really a tough decision, but I’ve been told that it’s the right call. Given all that’s coming to light, especially the article in the New York Post of all places, I don’t think it’s right not to do something, or at least say something.”

  Here it comes…

  “I am going to make a statement on social media. It’s going to say that I’ve made a tough decision, which it is, but I am choosing to terminate my contract.”

  My turn: “What are you saying?”

  The sequential texts stop momentarily, the author surprised to finally receive a reply. Yet it will arrive, as plain and as simply stated as an author afraid and worried that they may never find representation ever again can make: “I’m firing you. I can’t be associated. I hope you understand.”

  I start typing and they slip in yet another message: “But also even if you don’t understand, I don’t really care. I can’t be seen in the same proximity as you.”

  My reply, terse and professional: “Understood. You’ll receive a document soon. Sign it at your earliest convenience.”

  Got your back, Pendel. He doesn’t need to see this, at least not yet.

  There’s a message from Marina too.

  “Hey, so we’ve been getting a lot of emails and calls about, well, some allegations.”

  Jerry was the stunner, the knockout punch has everything to do with Pendel’s reputation as a jackal, an ogre. He built an entire empire of favoritism, and now, those he had hurt have climbed onto the stage for their own sermon.

  “Tell me,” I text back.

  She doesn’t know it’s me.

  “The allegations are bad. Lots of authors and editors and even some media people are all talking about how you treated them. You… aren’t coming off great.”

  “It’s not great,” I say.

  She agrees, “No, it isn’t.”

  “Thank you for letting me know.” Pendel, I got your back. “Keep a list. Any confirmations thus far?”

  “Confirmations?”

  “Something that actually affects us?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Authors, contacts, that kind of thing, looking for my side of the story, looking to speak or worse, back away from us?”

  “No…”

  “Keep on the lookout,” I say. “There may be some soon.”

  “You don’t seem hurt by the news,” she says.

  “I am, but this is a business; I cannot let any emotions cloud things. Every action must be clear and deliberate.”

  “Okay. I guess I’m impressed.”

  “I know,” I say, doing my best Pendel impersonation. “This is why I’m good at what I do. In the heat of a mess, I figure out how to clean things up.”

  Pendel passed out on the couch, I return to his side, watching him sleep.

  “Whew, it all went swimmingly, didn’t it?”

  So be it. This author is the first, though. The first of many. One client backs away, and there will be others. By the time we reach the climax, he’ll only have me. I’ll have him all to myself.

  Chapter 10

  “Wake up. It’s time for act three.” Pendel comes to reclined on a couch, the pain barely present. Everything feels foggy, his arms heavy, his mouth dry. “There you are. Feeling any better? Quite the wound you got there.” Pendel tries to move, finding it difficult to shift to his side. When he sees him, he panics, the lone thought being, I got to get out of here.

  “She really opened you up,” Moyer says. He is seated cross-legged on one of the kitchen chairs, facing him on the couch within arm’s reach. Pendel tries to devise a plan of attack; if not that, a plan of escape. Where’s the knife? Pendel thinks about the potential for another strike, and then it all comes apart when he remembers how it happened.

  Mal.

  Everything collapses. He’s in tears when Moyer rests his hand on his forearm, “Sit up, let’s have a chat.”

  What is trust when everything’s at stake, the person out to get you, the very same person that wants nothing less than complete destruction of your life, your career, and your name? This has nothing to do with trust.

  Moyer reads his mind, “You don’t have to trust me. Better that you don’t. Trust isn’t going to be very valuable in the coming days and weeks.”

  Pendel slowly wipes the fresh tears from his eyes. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He runs his tongue over his chapped lips.

  “Come, sit up.”

  It’s difficult, his body feels like dead weight, but he manages to get himself upright.

  “It might help to get to know each other,” says Moyer.

  The thought flickers as true: Doesn’t he already know everything about me?

  “No, I don’t know everything about you,” he says.

  Again, seemingly reading his mind.

  He makes a face, causing Moyer to burst out in laughter.

  “I can’t read minds or whatever,” he says. “That’s science fiction. I’m just good at reading the scene. Call it decades of practice.”

  “Okay…”

  Moyer uncrosses his legs and leans forward, “You should be feeling better.”

  He reaches for the area where he was stabbed… where she stabbed him…

  “Careful,” Moyer frowns, “Don’t mess with the stitches. They’re still fresh.”

  “That means…”

  Moyer spells it out for him: “Mallory McAllister, yes. She benefited from the workshop. Frankly, I’m surprised she lasted this long. It’s a good thing, though. She harbored so much resentment. An author unable to be an author… I know how she felt.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pendel says.

  “I know you are. But that doesn’t change things. But let’s not worry about McAllister. She was able to release it all.” He points at Pendel’s wound, yet again. “There’s your proof. Best of all, she has helped us both. Something like this changes a person, forces them to look inward. It’s been a long time coming.” Moyer lets out yet another chuckle, “And if you’re worrying about what will become of McAllister, she’s going to be just fine.”

  “She’s alive?”

  Moyer rolls his eyes, “Come now, keep up with me. McAllister’s entire oeuvre is going to be rediscovered posthumously. Every published work will be clamored over, become best sellers, and if she had written anything new, those would be ushered into publication too. But that’s okay.” He looks over his shoulder, causing Pendel to follow his gaze to the skeletal corpse still restrained to its chair. “They’ll find her in perfect form.”