What comes to mind is identical to the reason it had to be Church. Same reason it’ll put the rest of his authors in danger. I’m building a body of work; he’s going to build an empire, fully funded off the posthumous financial boons of every dead author on his list. All he needs to do is reply. Listen to me. I’ll be your highest-selling author.

  When that assistant of his relays the news, he doesn’t burst into tears; he doesn’t fall apart. No, that’s not like Pendel at all. Once he hears the news, he thinks, I’m going to squeeze another couple million out of Hendrix.

  Part Two EMERGING AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  J.D. Church is trending across social media. TMZ broke the news first, followed by The New York Times. Soon it’s on everyone’s mind, and users all have their own sorrow-ridden posts reaching for maximum engagement. Everyone wants to be involved in the media spotlight of a sudden and unfortunate death. A few of Pendel’s clients are quick to comment on the breaking news, including his recent deal-winner, Brendon Kawada, and long-time client, Mallory McAllister.

  I’m shocked. I just don’t know what to say. A big loss to the world of letters. Kawada follows up the post with a thread listing out his favorite books, stories, and interviews Church published during his lifetime. His thread goes viral alongside many others. McAllister’s post is even more emotional. I am glad to have been able to know and adore J.D. Church. He was a kind and complicated soul. I’m in tatters here; I don’t know how to go on. What follows is a customary ticker tape of condolences from hundreds of followers.

  Pendel sifts through social media but remains quiet, unable to post anything for himself. People DM and message him across all channels, offering their condolences. A few reporters have reached out for a quote, something to add to their own breaking news content. Pendel is beside himself, stricken by what can only be described as the worst timing ever.

  Then the agency sends someone to his office and suddenly silence and solitude become impossible. It isn’t a grief counselor; rather, Pendel’s talking to an employee with the agency that he hasn’t met before. His name is Mauro or Michael or Marcus. He doesn’t quite remember; Pendel’s been told that this guy is in the agency’s internal communications department and specializes in crisis mitigation and prevention.

  “You’re going to want to issue a statement. The investigation underway will likely make it to us, and we at CWE will have to say something. We should get ahead of it and send a press release to the media.”

  “Okay,” Pendel says, not quite paying attention. He continues to stare at social media, giving himself to the infinite scroll of the timeline.

  “I can get started, if you like.”

  The guy is all business, which normally Pendel would find to be an endearing quality, a positive character trait, but something’s on his mind. It isn’t Church’s death, or all that’s going to inevitably land on his desk, the good, bad, and ugly. It’s something far deeper. The source of the bother is that Pendel has no means to process the depth of this feeling.

  His skill set has always specialized in pushing things away, ignoring the problem, parlaying it with productivity. That’s not going to work, not this time. So what else is left? Nothing, except the feeling he simply cannot shake, the feeling that renders him foggy, unable to fully be anywhere. Lost to the infinite spiral of unprocessed thoughts.

  “You’ll want to put something personal in the press release,” he says. “You’ve been his agent for 12 years; it might be good to offer some candor, highlighting Church’s work ethic, his unstoppable, meteoric rise to literary fame. There was nobody else but you who experienced it as close to first-hand as Church.”

  “Yeah,” Pendel says.

  Marina walks into the office, “Sorry, but umm…”

  “It’s okay,” the guy says, whatever his name is, “We’re basically done here.” He stands up from his seat and gives his goodbyes, “Expect the draft within the half hour.”

  When the guy is gone, Pendel is still, no telling when he’ll stop, scrolling through the endless posts about Church’s death.

  “Becky’s on line two,” Marina says.

  That’ll work, snapping him back to the situation at hand. “Oh,” Pendel stutters. “We—well, then, umm, thank you?”

  “Sure,” Marina says. Nothing is okay. Not right now. She hangs her head, keeping every motion and murmur to a solemnity that can only be translated as mourning. There is no other way to react.

  He picks up the phone, Becky already in tears, hysterical on the other line, “Hi there Becky. My condolences.”

  “What the hell are condolences going to do?! What are we going to do?! He’s dead! He’s fucking dead!!”

  Pendel listens to Church’s wife, newly a widow, rant about how she thinks it was due to all the allegations, the negative media spin over the last couple of months. She’s almost incoherent when she talks about an internal investigation at the university, something Pendel hadn’t been aware of, and after a few minutes of pure anger, Becky defaults to sorrow.

  “I don’t know what to do. How do I continue without him?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Pendel says. He never apologizes, yet under the circumstances, there’s always a possibility for a first.

  “This isn’t like the movies,” she says. “There is no clear act of vengeance. Someone doesn’t pay for his death.”

  Well, actually…

  Pendel grins, then offers her some solace, “Oh on the contrary. Jerry was my author. It’s my responsibility to ensure that his work, and his name, lives on through a lucrative, very lucrative, legacy.”

  Becky perks up, “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that deal we just made, it’s looking like we’re going to quadruple it.”

  Money talks. In the case of Church, money has the propensity to heal. You can hear it in how quickly she calms down, the cocktail of intense emotion downgraded to a low whisper, something that she’ll carry in as much grief can be carried.

  “Tell me more,” she says.

  “I will, once I make a few moves,” he says.

  Without any way of processing the loss, Pendel turns to productivity.

  “Some homework for you, maybe it’ll even help keep your mind off things.”

  Becky can be heard sobbing, “That would be good.”

  “Dig up all of Jerry’s unpublished writings. Everything, even if it’s letters, reviews, anything.”

  “Okay…”

  “It’s time to gather ammunition for a big sale.”

  Hearing Church’s widower finding hope through a big payday only sweetens the opportunity. And it is an opportunity.

  A big one. Becky will know more soon. It’s time to make that call.

  Hendrix picks up the phone and says, “Henry. Jesus, man. How are you faring? Are you okay? I just can’t believe it.”

  “There’s a lot that’s unbelievable right now,” says Pendel. “For instance, I can’t believe how big of an opportunity we have, you and me. We may have lost our author, but he’s given us a license to print money.”

  “I’m listening,” he says.

  Chapter 2

  I’ve always liked going to literary readings. Never really made a lot of sense to me why so many authors speak ill of this sort of event, like the occasion to read your own work and hear the work of others, maybe compare notes and techniques, was something deemed lesser by the literary elite. You don’t have to do events or give readings if you’re a big enough author. That’s the impression, but really, when you go to the right readings, you tend to notice that some of the biggest names headline those reading series. Hell, often they are the ones running them!

  As a newly published author, I figure I should go to the reading.

  This series has been ongoing for nearly eight years. The Metropolitan Ave Lit Series, that’s what it’s called. My story goes something like, “Oh I’m new to all this. Just got my first story published! The London Review! I know, I’m ecstatic! Thank you so much! I’m just happy to be here!” Really, I’ve already planned out my attendance. There’ll be someone who is a no-show—the person opening the reading. Turns out he ends up with food poisoning. I wonder how that happened. He ate some Vietnamese the other night. That place on Franklin Ave. Their pho is to die for. He almost did. Maybe we crossed paths, and maybe we “compared notes.”

  He recently celebrated a publication too. I saw it all over his social media. It’s so easy to figure out where an author lives, what an author’s up to, and most of all, what an author is going through, thanks to some idea that became industry gospel, the need to put yourself out there if you want to be an author; if you aren’t broadcasting and documenting every detail of your life, people won’t care about your story. Anyway, I have my story, and he has his; the difference is that I’ll get to talking with the curator of the series after she finds out he’s sick.

  Right place and the right time.

  She’s cursing under her breath, talking to one of the other authors when I step forward, invisible in the crowd up until now. Start with some compliments, and then allow the topic to cut through. Play up the problem, and then, when the time is right, chime in with the story.

  “Just got my first story published!”

  “Congrats! Where can I find it?” She’s practiced this response. Can’t imagine how many authors have talked about their publications, with her at the receiving end. She feigns interest until hearing who published it.

  “The London Review!”

  “Wow, congratulations!” This time she’s sincere. “That’s amazing.”

  “I know, I’m ecstatic!”

  And then it’s right there, low-hanging fruit.

  “Did you maybe want to read from it?” She offers before she’s fully certain that she should, but it’s because I’m so charming that she leans into it, preferring the easy solution to her latest predicament. “I know it’s putting you on the spot but⁠—”

  “I’d love to!”

  Beautiful. Plays itself out perfectly. The readers sit in a VIP area, a booth in the back corner, away from the crowd. That’s where I see her for the first time, the author Chelsea Boll. She’s an emerging author, with a few novellas published with indie presses, and what looks to be a major debut novel being positioned by—who else?—Henry Richmond Pendel. She’s sitting with the other authors, silent and evidently nervous.

  The other authors chat, industry talk and the usual narrow range of topics:

  “Yeah, should have it done in time for the deadline my agent gave me…”

  “Teaching at CUNY and also building out a private workshop.”

  “He got a six-figure advance, but I bet he isn’t going to earn out.”

  “Publishing is an addiction. You can never get enough.”

  I’m sitting across from her, and when I lean forward and whisper the words, “Hey, big fan!” She grins and says thanks. It seems genuine enough. “The story you published in the Human Monsters anthology was amazing, just a masterful piece of psychological horror.”

  Validation is an author’s kryptonite. Give them something sincere and one-sided, and they’ll reveal their hand. When everything is so transactional, something genuine comes along and it becomes my perfect murder weapon.

  All I need to do is treat an author like a human being. Show some compassion, and it all falls into place.

  “You actually read that story?”

  I nod, “I did.”

  “Thanks. Didn’t think anybody actually read my stuff. It’s all on tiny, indie presses.”

  “Someone’s always reading,” I say. A compliment, a threat. I know all about her. Chelsea Boll. Beyond her publications, she is like seemingly everybody else: a New York City transplant. Three years in the city, she lives a solitary life. She graduated with an MFA from the Iowa Writers Workshop, which is no small feat. It opened doors, got Pendel’s attention, and it soon gave her ins with a lot of unreachable editors of different publications. Yet she suffered from writer’s block, and not just any bout of writer’s block, the kind where she couldn’t write what was pitched or assigned. All she could write was experimental horror, stories that lacked plot and favored imagery and mood. She was relegated to the small and indie press world, and her peers, people in her cohort at Iowa Writers Workshop, all started to cut her loose. No more invitations to their writing group, no more invitations to the weekly dinner party and cocktail hour. She was cut loose and in doing so, she felt the sting of nonacceptance.

  The curator addresses the table, “Alright, here’s the lineup…”

  I go first, followed by two other authors, a 15-minute break, followed by Boll and then the curator. Everyone says they’re fine with the lineup. The moment she leaves, there are whispers about her interjecting herself as the headliner.

  “Does she always do that?”

  “Yeah, that’s normal.”

  “Isn’t that… like, you know, kind of shameless?”

  Authors judging other authors. My attention is directed exclusively to Boll, who continues to stay out of the conversation, withdrawn for reasons that have everything to do with carrying trauma about not being accepted by a literary community.

  “You’re going to kill it,” I tell her.

  “Maybe that’s what I need to do,” she forces a laugh.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I wink.

  I spot her blushing a little, unintentional flattery, but it’s all part of the story. Like, if my reading goes well. I go up there with enough confidence and imagine myself reading to a group of people who actually care. Short intro and I’m reading eight minutes of “Survivors.” Applause afterward, and a few of the authors at the table tell me, “Dude, that was amazing,” and “Nice job.”

  But it’s when Boll rests her hand on my forearm and says, “That was wonderful,” then I know I’ve succeeded. Everything else is smooth sailing. Boll mumbles through her intro, which comes off as cute and endearing, though the authors at the table sigh, rolling their eyes, judging her elongated and slightly confusing explanation of the excerpt from her novel.

  She reads for 12 minutes and the passage is striking, a horror that predicts her own bitter end. I take notes in advance of our late-night workshop. In the passage, the young woman is seduced and led to the man’s apartment where he slips her a roofie. The guy reveals his true intentions, her long lost brother, and proceeds to torture and maim her, revenge for taking “his place” in the family. He talks about how her birth was an accident, and that her mother and father used her as a stopgap when he went missing.

  Her excerpt goes over well; the audience applause is delayed, everyone in shock by the graphic detail of the mutilation scenes. I’m the lone person who claps, later joined by others.

  “That’s from your novel?” I say, when she’s back at the table. Note that she sits next to me rather than across.

  “Yeah!”

  She’s relieved, enjoying the high of those post-reading minutes.

  “Absolutely harrowing,” I say.

  The curator takes the stage. All throughout the rest of the readers, I’m chatting up Boll, whispers traded about where she got the idea for her novel, the process of writing it, and how in many ways she channeled her own trauma into the story.

  When the reading concludes, people stick around and order drinks. Books are for sale up at the front of the venue. A line forms around one of the authors, the name doesn’t matter. Only Boll, she’s my focus, my author.

  We remain alone at the VIP table.

  After some awkward silence, me getting a chance to take in her aura, thinking about how the rest of the night will unfold, I ask her, “Up for getting a nightcap somewhere?”

  “It’s like you read my mind,” she grins.

  “Yeah, this sucks. Let’s get out of here.”

  The best part of going anywhere is being able to leave.

  Chapter 3

  Pendel isn’t offering a pitch; it’s an ultimatum. Positioning Hendrix in yet another compromised situation, it’s evident in how Hendrix doesn’t bother with negotiations. This has happened before. It’s a ticking clock; the news of an author’s death has a shelf life, and yet with an author like J.D. Church, there’s the issue of where those posthumous releases will go. It doesn’t necessarily retain exclusivity with Alfred A. Wolf just because Hendrix has been Church’s editor for years. The hesitation is held against the editor, Pendel using the situation to get back at his editor. It has everything to do with spite.

  “Tick tock, the entirety of J.D. Church’s estate up for grabs,” he says.

  This has everything to do with the dry spell, that month of silence from Hendrix and the publisher; an entire month of ghosting Pendel. You don’t do something like that, especially when you’ve worked closely to build one of the biggest authors and brands in modern history.

  To say that Church is an institution is an understatement.

  “What do you want?” Hendrix asks, and then immediately corrects himself, “What do you need from me?”

  “Some assurance,” Pendel says. “Rather, some insurance.” He offers a warning, “You’re going to miss him when he’s gone.”

  “Insurance…?”

  “I need a gesture of good faith. Think of his widower. Becky’s lost the love of her life and the main source of income. Surely all the success of the past will sustain her and their kids, but how can we be so sure, especially in this day and age?”

  Hendrix listens intently, dreading Pendel’s next demand.

  “I’m thinking about renegotiating the current deal,” he offers, sticking it to him. “Why stop at a four-book deal when it can be an exclusive, a full exclusive of every unpublished work to Church’s name? It’s all up for grabs.” The blade’s sharp, and he can hear it in Hendrix’s voice, a rattle in every syllable that proves to Pendel that he has the editor on his heels.

  “You say that, but we did already come to a deal for The Renegades and his most recent work,” Hendrix says.