For a person like Pendel, getting the deal announcement might be worth more than ensuring that the author attached even knows that a deal has been made.

  Oh! Did I let something slip?

  He’ll figure it out, eventually. The media’s got to catch on first.

  Still got a bit of time. Just enough for him to pull up to Black Swan, step out, and give the neighborhood a scowl—yeah, you expect more; better accommodations—before stepping into the dark expanse of the faux-Irish pub.

  I walk up and stand off to the side, setting a timer for 15 minutes. I reach into my jacket pocket. Rolled a joint, just for this occasion. Don’t normally smoke, but every once in a while…

  Mostly it’s for the look.

  Just another hipster in the hood. Meaning: completely ignored.

  I’m giddy, like some child waiting in line for the latest video game. Takes me a minute to figure out why. He won’t recognize me, not until I mention my name. But maybe I won’t; rather, I’ll pretend to be someone else. I’ll be anybody as long as I get a feel for who he is.

  On paper, he’s extraordinary.

  What’s he like in person?

  Timer screams. I put out the rest of the joint, feeling the dull pull of an incoming high.

  Time to have a little fun.

  Let’s play.

  Inside the restaurant, I walk past the bar immediately to my right and I make my way to the headwaiter, my story at the ready “Hey there, doing well, hope it’s not too busy, well good, yeah, I’m here looking for a friend, tall guy, short black hair, I’m so bad with descriptions, sorry, yeah, well, oh I can go on ahead? Well thanks, thank you, I’m looking forward to the food.”

  Every story has its sides; sometimes you only get to hear one.

  The place is pretty empty, only a few tables occupied. I’ve already practiced this interaction, conceivably how an actor gets into character; it’s all in my head until I’m walking past Pendel’s table, stopping short, turning on the balls of my feet, and playing this card: “Oh! Hey, are you…” Every story has its sides… Here you’ll only get to hear mine. “Yeah! You’re Henry Pendel, right? I saw you on a panel at the Brooklyn Book Fest a couple years back! It was so interesting, as an author myself. It inspired me to go on a deep dive online, reading the different business-of-publishing interviews that you did for Writer’s Digest, and I’ve followed your manuscript wishlist too!” Pendel hasn’t updated his wishlist since he wrote it. Likewise, most of his interviews were ghostwritten by his assistant. Someone like Pendel, he prides himself on being busy. Too busy. So what better way than to skip his discomfort, his mumbling, his tense body language, as I continue my storied performance?

  “Actually, I’m working on a novel myself. It isn’t done yet, I have a few chapters left, it’s just that it’s so hard to find the time to write when I’m working so many gigs to pay the rent, yeah you know how it is, the rent in this city, it’s insane how anyone can afford it, and really I moved here to be a writer, to become inspired, to get involved in the literary community, you know, readings and workshops, you see I’ve been doing workshops, actually, I’m workshopping my novel right now, I’ve gotten so much good feedback, I’m ecstatic that people that have read it dig it, so this is like, the universe putting us together, huh? You just happening to be here, where I am all the time, never expected the Henry Pendel to show at a local haunt, it must be a sign!”

  He keeps looking past me, like I’m not standing there.

  Expecting… who else? J.D. Church.

  Expectations aside, I expect him to call the server over for help. Waiting just long enough for discomfort to turn into anger, I see it switch over, and then I sit down, the confidence poised to make it appear as though I was the person he had been waiting for to arrive.

  “Excuse me,” he says. “I am flattered, and I wish you the best with your writing career, but what are you doing?”

  “What, did I do something wrong?” I ask.

  The server approaches, “Welcome! Can I start you on some drinks, water?”

  He ignores the server, “Yes, you’re invading my privacy and⁠—”

  “I’ll have an old fashioned,” I say, deflating the situation. “When it comes to alcohol,” I pause, chuckling, “I guess I’m old-fashioned.” More laughter. All mine.

  Pendel is speechless.

  “Sir,” he says, between grit teeth. “If you don’t honor my request to leave, I will have to resort to different matters.”

  “Were you waiting for someone?” I act confused. “Wow, holy fuck.” I stand back up, ready to deliver the last of my side of the story: “I’m so damn sorry, I overstepped my boundaries, I was just so excited to see you, in the flesh, I got ahead of myself, but did you like what I said about my book? Would it be something maybe you’d like to see? Should I query you when it’s ready? I’d love to, if you think it’s of any interest to you.”

  His side remains erased, nonessential to the story being told.

  Before leaving, I drop a bit of wisdom, “We all have a story to tell. Some are just willing to do anything to tell it.”

  “That’s good,” he says. “Put it in your book.”

  “Oh, I will,” I say under my breath. If only he saw the blade at the center of that blurb; a threat perhaps of all that we have in store, him and I.

  Was it fun? All I’d hoped?

  You know, I’m not quite sure. When you anticipate something for so long, you kind of build it up into a fiction that cannot be contained in any sense of reality. I’m not really sure if it’s disappointment or if I expected Pendel to put up more of a front, maybe a fight. Couldn’t he have at least understood that it was me, Alex Moyer?

  Well, one thing’s for sure:

  Pendel on the page and Pendel in person, they’re exactly the same.

  Chapter 13

  New York Times bestseller and multiple-award winner of the Stoker, Legion, and Jackson awards J.D. Church’s THE RENEGADES, about a group of five survivors over the course of five pivotal climate-change events detailing the uprising of a new cross-dimensional civil war, in a major four-book deal, to Hendrix de Leon at Alfred A. Wolf, by Henry Richmond Pendel at Cooper Willis Endeavor (NA).

  That’s two for two. Two deals announced in two days. Pendel’s on fire and he’s not about to slow down now. The Church deal is the Deal of the Day and quickly makes the rounds across industry talking heads. On social media, fans are speculating about Church’s slight genre shift from horror to something rooted more in mystery and science fiction. Talk of a cross-dimensional war has some confused, borderline worried, while other fans are excited to see something new from the popular author. Pendel’s takeaway is that there’s still a lot of money to be had from these big trade publishers. Even under the threat of sales and mergers, Alfred A. Wolf offered 8 million and a four-book deal. Frankly, Pendel thinks he could have gotten more, but chose to accept the deal with a better royalty rate, four installments instead of what would have been dozens across four books. What Hendrix doesn’t realize is that Pendel demanded a clause in the contract that offers the possibility for renegotiation down the line.

  Two for two.

  He’s got to keep this up.

  “Marina,” he shouts. “Get in here.”

  “Morning, Mr. Pendel,” she says.

  “You got the week’s submission shortlist?” He gets right to business, “And see if you can get a hold of Church’s wife, Becky.”

  “I have the list,” she says. “It’s already in your inbox! And sure thing. Is there a problem?”

  Pendel comes up with an excuse, “I just need to discuss something. It’s personal. Don’t worry about it. Just get her on the line, okay?”

  “Will do,” she says. After she’s gone, he turns to his inbox, scrolling through all the correspondence, people once again congratulating him on the Deal of the Day—the usual swarming of people seeking sub rights. Today is different. It could be that he’s disappointed, or rather, it could be that subconsciously he understands that something’s wrong with Church. Whatever it is, it keeps him from enjoying all the attention.

  People are already asking about preorders. That’s what you call a devoted readership.

  He finds Marina’s email and scrolls through the list. He still expects to see a name he recognizes, an author desperately looking to jump ship and sign with the best, but instead, it’s a bunch of no-names. Debuts. On a second glance, one name pokes through.

  Alexander Moyer.

  “No fucking way,” he whispers. “Marina!”

  She pokes her head into the office, “Yes?”

  “Umm, this one query by… Alexander Moyer, what, umm, jumped out to you?”

  “Oh, it’s a really cool concept!” She starts talking about the novel, identical in both premise and title as the previous query, the one they already passed on.

  He interrupts, “You do realize he’s already queried us.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think he did… I thought I checked.”

  “He did,” Pendel says, arms folded. “And we passed.”

  “Odd,” she says. But unlike him, she sees it merely as a mistake, an oversight. “He will be stricken from the list.”

  “Yeah,” Pendel says. “Umm, get Benji on the line.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now,” he says.

  He needs to update him on the new development. Benji isn’t going to believe this. Yet when he’s telling him about the repeat query, it doesn’t get the lawyer nearly as concerned.

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not really,” says Benji. “It proves my point: He’s obsessed. He’s obsessed with becoming your author.”

  “Shouldn’t this be filed away as new evidence?”

  “We can,” Benji says. “If you like.”

  Pendel searches for the author’s name. There are several Alexander Moyers in the world, at least one being a semi-pro athlete. One Alexander is deceased. Really, all this does is make it difficult for Pendel to find anything on the guy. In fact, there’s only one link, to a story newly published today. Moyer doesn’t have any social media. The story is called “Survivors,” and is published by a prominent literary journal called the London Review. Pendel listens to his lawyer’s long-winded explanation about how there’s still nothing else to be done here. This could violate the restraining order, a repeat query, yet it also involves having to reach out and interact with the stalker. “It’s just not worth it at this point,” Benji says. “The fact remains: He’s yet another writer who sees you as the only choice for career success.”

  “And they’ll do anything to tell their story…” Pendel murmurs, skim reading the story.

  “Huh? Yeah, sure,” Benji says. “Again, like I said before, keep track of everything and be sure to forward this query to me so that I have it too. I’ll put it with the rest.”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Anything else?”

  Pendel doesn’t hear him. The truth hits hard; this Alexander Moyer, he’s a good writer. The story is about a group of survivors stuck in the battlefields of war. It delves into speculative fiction when it’s revealed that the war is multi-dimensional and that the war is being waged over control of the remaining inhabitable lands on Earth. Pendel reads it and fails to see the glaring coincidence.

  “Henry? You okay?”

  He clears his throat, “Yeah. Yeah.” He can’t stop reading the story.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Benji says and hangs up.

  Marina reenters his office, all color flushed from her face. Her lip quivers, “Mr. Pendel…”

  “What is it, Marina? Can’t you see I’m reading?”

  The story grips him enough that in the back of his mind, he almost wants to look at the full manuscript. He doesn’t notice how upset his assistant is, nor does he see the swift and sudden shift in the sorts of emails arriving in his inbox. From congratulatory to caustic, the subject lines tell a horrific story, one of bad timing and a future unimaginable. And Pendel’s going to be caught in the middle of it.

  “Mr. Pendel,” she says, nearly shouting.

  He looks up from the computer screen, “What?!”

  “J.D. Church was found dead.”

  Chapter 14

  Same day you announce a lucrative deal, the author turns up dead. Ouch, talk about bad luck. That’s the kind of thing that changes a person. What’s a literary agent to do? He’s having the worst day of his life. I’m having a good day, was able to bear witness to the discovery.

  And I got published! You’d think I’d feel a certain way about plagiarism, but I changed it enough to make it my own. Truth is, I made it better. Things happen in my story. After trimming all the fat, I was left with 7k words. Just enough to wow the editors at the London Review. They got back to me the same day. Feels nice, being seen and successful. Guess that’s why Church lost his mind. You let it get to your head, become power-hungry, demanding validation from everyone, all hours of the day and night. You want it all, and when you have it, you want something you can never have.

  He wanted to feel alive. Alive, something he’ll never have again.

  Don’t know what you got until it’s gone.

  I’m just another hotel guest when housekeeping finds Church’s body in the tub, the liquid less water and more chemicals and blood. His body has already begun to decompose, just enough that it makes first sight an instant horror. At least one of those employees will quit on the spot and for that, I must apologize. It’s the only part I’ll apologize for, those that are too close and get hit by shrapnel. Occupational hazard. They find the body and I hear both women scream from my room. I’m one of five hotel guests loitering in the hallway, already a security guard has begun controlling the scene of the crime.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh my god…”

  “Someone died!”

  The clatter of onlookers quickly realizing the severity of the situation. I play along, even shedding a few tears when the cops arrive.

  “How could something like this happen?!”

  That one is me, thank you. Even get one of the cops to talk to me, offering a hug. He tells me what I already know, which is much more than a cop should tell any bystander. It’s the author, a famous author. Dead. Looks like it might have been suicide.

  The last part is a lie, but this early they still haven’t found the pages tucked away for safekeeping under his skin. They don’t see the notes I gave, the result of a productive workshop. Instead, there’s a lot of mitigating the sanctity of the scene. Eventually, we’ll be told to leave the scene, that we’re intruding, and the age-old “nothing to see here!”

  Oh, but there’s plenty to see.

  Media will get their hands on the details a little over an hour later. The worst of the worst, places like TMZ, will cover the story. For most any other author, it would remain in literary circles, most likely on social media, but for a big name like J.D. Church, it gets celebrity treatment.

  His story matters to many.

  The shock that reverberates across the media when details leak about how they found pages inside of the body will get people talking, though I don’t see how it’s any more shocking than the snoozefest of his novel and how it landed him millions.

  What about Pendel… how does he find out?

  I’ve always had an overactive imagination, which works well for my career path. I can imagine his side of the story, how he finds out, and how it’s deliberate, the part about finding out after everyone else. Pendel’s too self-absorbed to care about the well-being of his authors.

  Here’s what’ll happen, no doubt:

  The media spreads the news like a virus. The one most likely to deliver the news is a colleague, likely his assistant, Marina Grace. He’ll be in the middle of basking in being the man behind today’s Deal of the Day, probably already onto another deal, selling the rights to the book, maybe already talking about turning it into a movie. Same as always, he is a jackal, cutthroat and thinking only about the next deal. That’s where the news will find him, and that’s how I will see him backed into a corner, one that he won’t see until it’s already too late. Journalists will be quick to hit him up for a quote. There’ll be emails in his inbox swarming, and then Pendel will hear from his editor, and then it’ll be a frenzy of battling what the media gets and what they decide to say. Pendel walks into a living nightmare.

  But at least it’ll be lucrative.

  Never mind that there is no manuscript. There will never be any manuscript with the title The Renegades and no new words from J.D. Church. The deal made is a deal that will inevitably be a blunder, one lost. Never mind that he doesn’t think of it, not yet. Never mind that he doesn’t think about where, and how, the media and Church’s readership will position him. Never mind the late-night drunk texts with the author mere hours before his death. Never mind that he doesn’t put any of the pieces together, doesn’t even realize that there’s a puzzle in need of solving.

  Whatever’s left of the manuscript is now evidence. The editors there said they devoured it; they simply couldn’t look away. That’s how I want people to react to my body of work.

  When I do something, they can’t look away.

  It’s the biggest compliment any author can get.

  It’s what I aspire to do, and by the way they’re reacting to Church’s death, already talking about it being the work of a serial killer, it seems my process is working! They already want a sequel. No, they expect a sequel. Well, lucky for them, I’m thinking bigger picture; an entire industry to encompass. I think many will join me in this story.