Page 7 of The Chain House

Jennifer, he’d said too quickly, much too quickly, because while they didn’t know each other exactly, he knew who she was—he’d noticed her the first day of the semester—and at that moment instantly feared she’d one day recall who he was. So, when she’d finally come up to him with her question—Do we know each other?—Trevor had panicked, just as he’d warned himself not to do if Jennifer Daley were to ever approach him outside the boundaries of class.

Because there’s no way she could remember, right?

If only she would have left it at that. If only she’d taken him at his word, however false it had been, and let it go. But she hadn’t. The next class she’d confronted him again, hammering it home how distinctly she remembered his face from somewhere, specifically his narrow blue eyes. And even as a line of eager students with real questions waited behind her in the lecture hall, she’d continued with what to him seemed like an interrogation but was really only one more question—Who do you think Mallard Malone is, Professor Harper?

He’d tried to play it off, laughing as he’d said, Well, I wouldn’t have the foggiest clue, Miss Daley, as I’ve never read those books. Quickly adding, And I don’t plan to.

He assumed she’d asked because the name of the anonymous author had come up during class and Trevor Harper had scoffed at the mere mention of him. Or her. Or they, or them, or who really knew.

Why not? She’d asked, following in his wake even as he’d turned from the podium. Why wouldn’t you ever read them?

Because I don’t read popular fiction, he’d answered over his shoulder, again with that nervous hitch in his voice, crushing any attempt at nonchalance.

And then she’d gone right for the jugular. Wait … Are you?

Am I what?

Are you … Mallard Malone?

Now that had caught him off guard, and he’d had no problem unmasking his genuine shock over the question. No, dear—and in hindsight, if he’d done anything wrong, he wished he hadn’t said dear—I am certainly not Mallard Malone. Instead of leaving it at that, he’d had to ask: Why would you ever think that? I’ve seen the numerous lists of guesses of possible authors over the years, and I can tell you I’ve never come close to landing on any of them. I don’t even write fiction.

But you do write, she’d responded.

I’ve published one book, fifteen years ago, on the rise of Nazi extreme groups.

I know, Jennifer Daley had said so matter-of-factly it had frozen him. I just finished reading it. And that’s why I asked the question. There are similarities in how you described the nineteen twenties and thirties in Germany with some of the white nationalist groups now, with the nation-building in Mallard Malone’s fantasy novels. There are many similarities between Adolf Hitler and Mallard Malone’s main character Oliver Crown, who, in my opinion is both the protagonist and antagonist.

To which he smiled and said, I’m sure this Oliver Crown is quite the character, but all this seems like a stretch. Although I’ve never heard anyone refer to Hitler as the protagonist type.

To his followers he was, she’d said. Until of course, he wasn’t. You should read the novels. You’ll notice the similarities.

Coincidence, I’m afraid.

You refer to Hitler and the Nazis as a cult … in your book.

And your point?

Most Mallard Malone enthusiasts believe the apocalypse and genuine breakdown of the world order in those novels happened because of a cult. At least that’s what they predict will be unveiled in the final book. I mean, Book One. You know the books are written in reverse order, that the timeline goes backward?

So I’ve heard.

And we’ll finally learn how Oliver Crown became the evil leader he is. You do know who Oliver Crown is?

I don’t live under a rock, Miss Daley. I hear he’s the most popular fictional character since Harry Potter.

He hoped her pause meant she was finished, but it only proved to be a diving board into her next question. You know who else was in a cult? Sal Batise, she said. Professor Harper smiled, as if amused, but he was fighting the fury bubbling up from the pit of his stomach—it had only been a few days since his son had finally told him about the documentary he’d been working on, and the revelation, with him, was still raw. And as if reading his mind, she said, I heard your son is doing a documentary on him.

Is that so?

Word gets around.

I don’t see your point, Miss Daley.

If anyone knows about cults, it would be Sal Batise. He seems to know a lot about everything … You know, “Just Ask Sal”?

He knew all about “Just Ask Sal.” Batise was popular for many reasons, most of them horrible, but in his four stays of execution, he’d conveniently told authorities each time, and in the final days before he was set to die, where a missing person’s body could be found buried. Each time, bodies were found, and families of the missing gained closure. And while Sal swore up and down that he had nothing to do with said bodies being in the ground, his answer to the inevitable question—How did you know the body was there?—was always the same: Little birdie told me. Bottom line was that Sal Batise showed an uncanny ability to simply know things no one else did, as well as an even more uncomfortable ability, nearly on par with The Simpsons TV show, to predict things that had yet to come, whether it be sports games or stock market swings or future presidents—he predicted President Trump from his death row isolation unit as early as 2008—or the scoop on P-Diddy years before it started to come out. And it didn’t take long for the meme “Just Ask Sal” to start all over the internet.

But Trevor Harper didn’t know what this had to do about anything now, and said to Jennifer Daley, I still don’t see your point with all this.