Chapter Thirty-Four #2
Shreya’s eyes went wide, and Merritt could sense her wariness.
Even Alan looked up from his notes. Merritt reached into Evie’s designer bag and slid the finished manuscript across the table.
Shreya took it gingerly and began to flip through its early pages.
Then she let the manuscript pages fall back into a stack.
“Whit told Joan he had no manuscript,” she said in a clipped voice that Merritt might have used herself if she were being
confronted by a clearly delusional stranger.
“Yes, I know that. But that’s not true. He and I wrote this together.”
“Then why . . .”
“He had a crisis of confidence.” She was massaging the truth, but what choice did she have? “He doesn’t consider himself a
fantasy writer, and he convinced himself that what we’d written together wouldn’t be . . . right for the series. But I’m here
because I know it is, and I think you might agree. When you read it.”
Shreya remained suspicious, but an intrigued look had crept across her face. Merritt wondered whether Helen’s agent had mentioned
that Whit had brought on a coauthor. It would explain why she wasn’t treating Merritt as if she were completely insane. Merritt kept talking.
“Ask Joan. She’s been checking in on Whit and knows we’d been making progress. And you and I both know Helen left the completion
of the manuscript to Whit in her will, and well, here it is. Completed.”
“Yes, there is a manuscript here,” Shreya said, curt once again. “But Whit himself said he could not complete it, and we are in the process
of amending the contract in light of the estate’s failure to deliver. Another writer has already been signed to write the
book, and we now have access to Helen’s journals and plans for the final installment. We are in a position to complete this
quickly, and in a manner that best suits the interests of the series and the publisher.”
“Even if it means ignoring what Helen wanted.”
Shreya’s face darkened at that. She pushed her hair behind her ears and leaned forward.
“Listen. Helen wasn’t just my author. She was a good friend. It pains me that this is how things have ended up. Really. To
lose her, first of all, and then to lose her before she could complete her . . . well, her masterpiece. I hate this, truly.
It’s been so awful.”
“Awful for Whit, too, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Shreya nodded, genuine compassion in her eyes, and Merritt was relieved to see that this woman did indeed have a soul.
“So there’s nothing you can do? Even with the completed manuscript sitting right in front of you?”
“I wish—”
Alan cleared his throat, drawing Shreya’s eyes his way. She turned back to Merritt just as her eyes finished rolling at her
colleague.
“No” was all she said.
édouard cleared his throat in a way that might possibly have been meant to mock Alan. “And you think this decision will hold
up to legal scrutiny.”
Alan smirked. “I can assure you, Mr. Marchand, that it will.”
Merritt and Shreya sat silent for a moment. Alan seemed to be losing interest, so Merritt pulled out the first weapon in her
arsenal.
“Fine. Let me ask you this then, Shreya. How do you think Helen’s fans will respond when they find out you’ve given the book
away, against Helen’s final wishes? That you’ve chosen, for the sake of efficiency, some ghostwriter over Helen’s husband—the person she hand-selected to shepherd this beloved series to its conclusion?”
Shreya made a face, as if this were a distasteful thing to say, but when she spoke, her tone was measured.
“Merritt, I can understand how disappointing this must be for you. I’m sure this”—she gestured to the manuscript—“must have taken a lot of time and effort. From both of you. But as I said, we have the journals.”
“The journals are just journals. This is a finished manuscript, completed by Whit, like Helen hoped. She left it to him to complete, using”—Merritt repeated what Whit had told her about the will with far more certainty than she felt—“whatever
means he deemed necessary and appropriate.”
Shreya clenched her jaw for a moment. “We had no choice, Merritt. We gave Whit as much leeway as we could, but he missed multiple
deadlines, not just the final one. We knew it was difficult for him, but we needed him to deliver, and he couldn’t. As for
how the fans will respond, I highly doubt that our publisher is going to be motivated by empty threats.”
Merritt narrowed her eyes.
“Empty?”
Shreya cocked her head in a pitying way. She was visibly ready for this meeting to be over.
“So you really won’t consider Whit’s version? No matter what?”
Shreya gave her a sad smile and shook her head.
Merritt took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back.
“I see. And nothing I can say will make a difference?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Merritt nodded once, then stood, extending her arm. édouard looked at her in confusion.
“Well,” she said, taking first Shreya’s hand and then that of the slowly standing Alan, “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
“Well,” Shreya said flatly. She shrugged, as if not knowing what to say, and Alan made a noise that seemed to lament the lost
minutes.
“Thanks,” Merritt said then, her voice suddenly meek as she straightened up to go.
She turned to the door, then stopped and turned back.
“Oh, sorry, just two more quick things I forgot to mention.”
“Yes?” Shreya’s annoyance was fully visible now. Alan fiddled with his briefcase, and édouard watched her, enrapt, as if she were
an actress in a play.
“Whit inherited all of Helen’s social media,” Merritt said, speaking like someone remembering a temporarily forgotten piece
of information, “and as of when I checked last night, that amounts to around four million followers across platforms.”
Alan looked up from beneath his Martin Scorsese eyebrows, then at Shreya, who seemed pained in her attempts to wear a neutral
face.
“I have a sort of strong feeling that any video or thread Whit makes about this will go pretty viral.”
Shreya narrowed her eyes. “Yes. If Whit were to do that, it would probably go ‘pretty viral.’ And the second thing?”
“The second thing,” Merritt said, smiling, “is that Ian Hoult, the writer who sometimes publishes pieces with The Atlantic—”
“We know who Ian Hoult is,” Alan said irritably.
“Oh, good, that’s helpful.” Merritt’s voice, she knew, was gratingly chipper. “Anyway, Ian is interested in interviewing us
for an article—about how corporate greed can be so great that it supersedes even the dying wishes of one of the brightest
lights in children’s literature: an author who, some might say, had been carrying this publishing house on her back for the last decade, and whose death has revealed not grief, not respect, but an overly fussy commitment to arbitrary deadlines
and a deep and abiding love for, above all else, the bottom line.”
Merritt needed to take a breath after that.
Alan stood up straight, clearly incensed, but Shreya put a hand on his arm to keep him from speaking.
“You make two very interesting points, Merritt.”
Was that a small smile on her face?
“Do you mind waiting here, just a bit longer, while I have a chat with my colleagues?”
“Not at all,” Merritt said, retaking her seat.
“Great. I’ll be right back.”
Shreya left quickly, effectively dragging Alan with her as he scowled all the way out the door.
édouard turned his lovely eyes and curling smile on her when they were gone.
“Very good. Very, very good.”
Merritt felt glowy and warm for the next fifteen minutes—until Shreya returned. Alone.
“Can you get this to me as a doc?” she asked, placing her hand on the formerly forgotten manuscript.
“What?”
“Can you?”
“Yes, of course. Does that mean . . .”
“It only means,” Shreya interrupted, patting the manuscript as she spoke, “that I will read this with an open mind and get back to
you and Whit.”
Merritt’s hands flew to her cheeks, and tears threatened to spill from her eyes.
“Oh my God.” Merritt was hardly able to hear her own voice.
“Fuck yeah,” édouard hissed, delightfully out of character.
“I know,” Shreya said. She picked up the manuscript and walked back toward the door. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I
think you two should probably leave before Alan calls security.”
“Yes, of course,” Merritt said, standing up instantly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Shreya began to walk away, but then she paused and looked back at Merritt.
“Or rather,” she said, holding up the manuscript slightly, “thank yourself.”