“You see it?”

  Pendel clears his throat, “Yeah. Yeah, I see it.”

  “Good, now are you going to tell me the truth, or are you going to make this difficult?”

  He’s skimming through the article, noting the names quoted. Damn, they got Davidson? He had always liked Tad’s writing. What’s more, Tad sold books. Lots of books. He was always an easy name to represent, the submission window ever short and offers usually rolled in within a week.

  Pendel’s mind has trouble processing everything that’s happened. The detective doesn’t give him a chance to speak, quickly darting off new details, “I was willing to keep my mind open, even when it was odd that every single victim happened to be one of your authors. I’ve seen some crazy shit on the job. Nothing is ever as it seems. But then you came along, and I disliked you from the moment we first met. Every detective learns quickly to trust a first impression. My first impression, it wasn’t good, Pendel. You came off as a crook, a shady presence so full of himself I really wanted to find a reason to book you right then and there.” Detective Monroe raises his voice, “But you just backed yourself into a corner, Pendel. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “I…”

  The detective doesn’t let him speak, “Nope, I gave you a shot. You had your chance to confess, to explain yourself. But you just play stupid, fine, do that. What you ought to do is get your ass down to the precinct right fucking now so that I can arrest you and be done with this media circus! Oh, but no, you won’t play easy. You’d rather make this obnoxious…”

  “That’s not true,” Pendel says.

  The detective isn’t listening, “No, you’re clearly getting off on this shit. You love the attention, even if it’s being a public enemy. Well, you have your fun, okay?! You have your fun, but the moment you slip up, the moment I have the evidence to take you down, you’re going down. And you are never, ever going to know what it feels like to have freedom ever again! You’ll be filed away in some shitty jail cell where there’s barely any light, and you’ll waste away, alone and miserable. That, I assure you, is your future!”

  “You have to let me explain,” Pendel says. “This isn’t what⁠—”

  “Nope, unless you’re going to confess, I’m done playing nice. Once I get that one piece of evidence, you’re finished. Life over.”

  The call ends, Pendel left completely stunned.

  “Was that Monroe?” Moyer appears at the foot of his bed, arms crossed. Had he been listening the entire time?

  Pendel drops the receiver and yawns, “Yeah.”

  “He suspects something,” Moyer says.

  Another nod. “Yup.”

  “I’d advise you not to feed him any details. He’s hot on the trail, but unless you confess or we mess up, he has nothing but suspicion and a bunch of online controversy to feast on.”

  He’s still making sense of the latest developments, particularly the so-called “mass exodus.” A tinny beeping can be heard coming from the receiver. Pendel picks it up and places it back on its source. “Did Tad Davidson really fire me?”

  Moyer takes a tentative step toward the right side of his bed, “Davidson, Violet Blue, Kyle Rubin…” He trails off and then snaps his fingers, remembering the name, “Hayden Feehan.”

  “Hayden Feehan,” Pendel sighs. “I don’t know a Hayden Feehan.”

  Moyer laughs, “Were you always this forgetful?”

  What can he really say? Yes, no? Pendel hasn’t made peace with the fact that his selective memory is self-manifested. How can one remember a name if they never bothered to hear it in the first place?

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “You do,” Moyer chuckles. “The only reason why you remember my name is because I made it evident and clear. If you were tested, I bet you couldn’t name more than a handful of your clients.”

  No comment.

  “Thought so,” Moyer says.

  “Should I feel bad about what’s happening?”

  Moyer’s turn to shrug it off, “Don’t know. Up to you. It makes no difference for the story. Your place in the narrative is defined well enough. No need for edits.”

  Pendel scans the room, for what? Anything. A sense of solvency, something that reminds him that he still has some control over his life. Failing to find it, his attention returns to Moyer, who paces around the room. There it is, the sense he needed, found in his new signee, my author. A note of confidence, helping Pendel believe that maybe, just maybe, there is a future where he doesn’t end up in jail.

  “No time to waste,” Moyer says. He walks over to Pendel’s closet and retrieves clothing: a shirt, blazer, and dress pants. He glimpses the tie rack and selects one. “They’re circling like sharks, but we’re a few steps ahead. They’ll find her soon; by then we need to be a few chapters into the story.”

  Mal.

  “Yup,” Moyer says, reading his mind. “They’re going to find Mal. Either the postal worker or her family, probably her daughter, who tends to come home first. They’ll find her and it’ll quickly be linked to your client list. Meaning, they’ll continue to chase after you.”

  “You need to help me,” Pendel pleads.

  Moyer tosses the clothes onto the bed, “Duh. You can count on me. I know how this story ends.”

  Chapter 3

  He’s full of ideas, but I’m not going to ask. There’s only one editor that comes to mind. When I tell Pendel what needs to happen next for the story to truly hit its peak, that perfect and provocative climax, we need to move from authors to editors. He has a whole list of editors he hates, but no, I don’t think so.

  “Hush now,” I tell him. “The answer is right there, at the top of your inbox.”

  Hendrix. It must be Hendrix.

  The history between agent and author, dozens of book deals yielding a sudden betrayal, Hendrix backing away from Pendel in a show of trepidation and disgust: It’s still a betrayal, and one that establishes motive. Why wouldn’t Pendel be upset? Hendrix had been backing away from the agent for months, long before the news broke of Pendel’s poor behavior.

  It kind of gets you thinking, how did he know before everybody else? Yeah, think about it for more than a second and Hendrix becomes increasingly more suspicious. It’s almost like he knew before everybody else. And who really would have handed him that kind of information?

  I wonder.

  Let me tell you about Hendrix. As previously mentioned, he was once a young and ambitious editor, an assistant to a long-retired editor. When he started at Alfred A. Wolf, he was fresh, wide-eyed, the kind of employee that gets exploited by the disaffected and desensitized long-standing employees. He, too, went to the Columbia Publishing Course. Just like Pendel… and just like Pendel, he found his way into the industry through a genuine interest in reading.

  He wanted to be a part of the story. Not an author himself, he found a role as an editor, helping sculpt the story. And an editor is someone who learns by doing, similar to an author. An emerging editor cuts their teeth on the slush, the hefty and dreary act of reading submissions, offering that feedback, and slowly but surely becoming someone who has the right eye.

  Hendrix gets this email one day. It’s not really a submission, not exactly. Rather, it’s a recognizable name, Henry Richmond Pendel. The agent reaches out to offer Hendrix his congratulations. You see, Pendel saw the job move on Publishers Marketplace. Hendrix is promoted to associate editor, which means he has the newfound responsibility of acquiring a select number of books. Pendel earned his reputation as being the first and the best, there to forge a new transactional relationship the moment anyone becomes of value to him.

  Hendrix is just shy of his 26th birthday when he is promoted.

  The email is overwhelming for such a young editor. Its contents depict what Pendel does best, doting out a sizable helping of positivity, making the recipient feel not only welcomed but also high on validation. Pendel is keen to point out Hendrix’s meteoric rise, how every manuscript he read and offered positive feedback went on to be successful books, all of them selling better than expected. Pendel makes sure to keep the door open, building Hendrix up to be his next toy, confidant, and inside editor who can meet the demands he requires.

  That’s how it started, with a nice email. From that point on, there wasn’t a day that Hendrix didn’t receive an email. The way it starts, talking about upcoming books and what Hendrix is looking for, to the eventual manipulation into prioritizing Pendel’s submissions over other agents. It wasn’t all that shocking; Hendrix was impressionable. He wanted to be seen as a valuable editor. Most importantly, and not to be discounted: He felt the pressure to produce successful books. If an author is only as good as their last book, then an editor has twice the pressure, for their primary role is to ensure that a book is in the best shape before entering production.

  Hendrix is lulled into a degree of confidence by the quality of Pendel’s submissions. After so many hits, the backchannel between agent and editor became ironclad.

  Pendel could sell whatever he wanted to Hendrix, and Hendrix would buy anything from Pendel in a heartbeat. It was a professional bond tantamount to insider trading… yet what nobody else knew didn’t hurt them, right?

  Pendel’s pattern of behavior…

  How did Hendrix know?

  Thing about getting the story right, you need to be thorough with your research. You need to seek every corner, every option, and in this case, I needed to meet the editor who ushered in some of the most lucrative deals for both the publishing house and Pendel.

  He’s easy to find, you see. Scheduled for an informational meeting, posing as a journalist interested in profiling Hendrix. I make sure to have the meeting in his office, so I’m aware of the details and whereabouts of an editor when it comes time for the story to include him.

  That morning, I show up as a journalist, and it’s unmemorable. Our interactions are made to be intentionally blasé, the usual 20 questions. Yet I see how he reacts to being in the spotlight; I notice how Hendrix has adopted some qualities from Pendel. His ego has been inflated, his understanding of where he rests currently in the internal hierarchy at Alfred A. Wolf renders him borderline indulgent in all things personal accolades. It’s easy to talk him up while I tell him everything he needs to know about his favorite agent.

  He learns about the favoritism.

  He learns about the grooming.

  He learns about Jerry and Pendel’s predatory behavior.

  He learns about Mallory McAllister.

  He learns about everything, and then I’m the one that puts him on the spot, “In light of these allegations, and having worked closely with the agent, would you like to comment on your professional relationship with Henry Richmond Pendel?”

  It’s enough to scare an editor so reliant upon his reputation. It’s where both he and Pendel are identical. Of course, a question like that, after so many easy ones, I’m not getting any straight answers. He’s flustered, for sure, but my research is complete. That morning, I did the groundwork. I gathered all the necessary research, learned about the most important and precious editor, and found the inspiration I needed. Best of all, the editor knew first, even before the agent. He always said he wanted to be part of the story.

  Well…

  Hendrix, your wish is about to be granted.

  Chapter 4

  No need to search very hard to find Hendrix. Moyer briefs Pendel on Hendrix’s routines, and after some coercion, the agent agrees to go along. Better yet, Moyer talks him into taking the lead. “Infamy,” says Moyer, whenever Pendel hesitates. Hendrix, it turns out, is a workaholic just like Pendel. You can find him in his office every day, well after hours. When they make the commute to the Alfred A. Wolf offices, it’s a little after 8:30 PM on a Monday, typically an hour of the evening when only some of the assistants remain hustling and working to break even, to catch their breath. Hendrix is drowning in submissions, to-do list items.

  They find him in his office, head down, face inches from his computer screen. His short hair looks slightly unkempt. If they bothered to pry, they’d discover that Hendrix had spent much of the day going through backlists, cross-checking rights and contractual obligations for many of Pendel’s now ex-clients. Hendrix received an order from publisher Jonathan Sharpe to inspect the contracts for any foul play, see if they can renegotiate with the authors’ new agents.

  Lights are off, all is quiet.

  The nearest employee is on the other end of the eighth floor, busily collating and working through some past-due proofs.

  “You know what to do,” Moyer says.

  “Wait, you’re not…”

  Moyer chooses to stand back, hidden by the shadows, a situation of comfort and reassurance after years of standing aside.

  “If you have any trouble, just remember what he did.”

  Betrayal. Can Pendel find enough hurt in his heart to take a life?

  It must be more than taking a life, though. Moyer hands over his bag full of various items, murderous utensils, all vetted from previous workshops.

  Tonight, an agent meets with an editor to make some key changes to the story as it currently stands. There can only be one that survives the night; for the story to work, one must die. Pendel pauses every few steps, expecting Hendrix to look up from his screen and notice him standing there in the hallway.

  He gets a free pass. The story demands that he hurt this man, bleed him out slowly, give him enough feedback to never again betray the hand that feeds.

  Hendrix is too busy to see Pendel at his office door, stepping inside and closing the blinds. He’s too slow to react to Pendel’s swift inceptive moves, namely the quick draw of the knife, the hasty dash toward Hendrix’s desk, and the preemptive blade against his neck.

  “Pendel?! The fuck?”

  Pendel wants to end this quickly, pushing the blade firmly against the soft flesh of Hendrix’s neck.

  “You’ve gone mad,” says Hendrix.

  This is it; all he needs to do is drag the blade firmly across, dig deep enough to let the lifeblood pour out, and then it can all be over. Yet as one moment passes, and in another gasp, Hendrix is fighting back, grabbing at the blade, shouting for help. Pendel’s slight hesitation threatens to ruin the entire story.

  Moyer walks into the office, locking the door.

  He sighs, “Really?”

  Pendel loosens his grip, Hendrix falling to the floor, crawling around the desk, taking solace in a corner. He gazes up at Moyer and plays his part, “Who, who the fuck are you?!”

  “You can do better,” says Moyer. Then he looks down at Hendrix, “You both can. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Is that the best you can do? How many years editing manuscripts and the best you can do when facing your enemy, is to pretend you don’t recognize me? Or even attempt to understand why Henry would maybe want to end your life?”

  Hendrix presses his hand against his neck, checking for any blood loss, and then says, “I didn’t think Pendel would go off the deep end.”

  “He’s lucid, knows where the story’s going,” Moyer says. “Isn’t that right, Henry?”

  Henry won’t say a word. His moment has passed, a failure.

  Hendrix checks his hand, sees no blood, and then chuckles, “You really shouldn’t have done that, Pendel. I mean, I understand that you’re going through a lot right now…” Hendrix returns to his desk, leans back in his chair, seemingly not at all worried about his safety, “But you got to admit that you did this to yourself? Jesus Christ, Henry, pitting your authors against each other?! The thing with Jerry?! This isn’t good. No good at all! How can you not understand my need to distance myself from you?”

  Moyer retrieves the bag from Pendel. He offers a suggestion, “What makes you think you can still get away?”

  “Excuse me,” Hendrix says. “But I don’t know who you think you are, but I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m going to get back to this, okay? Pendel, you get the fuck out of here. I never want to hear from you again. Hear me? You too.”

  “Hear you loud and clear,” says Moyer. In his right hand, he holds a hammer, which still looks brand-new, and has a price tag affixed to its handle. Moyer launches his body over the desk, driving the claw of the hammer into Hendrix’s eyes. The left eye gouged, Hendrix’s bloodcurdling screams, yet Moyer is not quite satisfied. “Ugh, this is no good.” He inspects the hammer, clearly his intention was to gouge both eyes. He shakes his head, snaps a look at Pendel, “I’m not happy. This all needs to be edited out.”

  “Can’t you just…” Pendel can’t say the words.

  A knock on the door. “Umm, hello?”

  Must be the production assistant.

  Moyer drives the face of the hammer into Hendrix’s skull repeatedly until the screams stop. Hendrix’s face is unrecognizable. They both remain silent until they hear the assistant’s footsteps walking away.

  He shakes his head, looking at the mess.

  The manner of Hendrix’s demise, it doesn’t make sense, not for the story. There’s no emphasis on betrayal, no use of a callback. Instead, what they have is a body that has been attacked. It could have been anybody. How is this going to factor into the story?

  “Just…” Moyer points to the door, “Stay here while I make sure that employee isn’t going to be a problem.”

  Chapter 5