Page 63 of Ghostridden
I couldn’t help it. I laughed, which brought a thundering scowl to Carson’s face, as though I’d actually offended him. “What are you laughing about?”
“I’m pretty sure the job description of a literary curator doesn’t include burning an author’s final manuscript.”
“I told you. The brand has moved on. Readers wouldn’t want an obviously inferior product.”
Okay, call me oblivious, but it wasn’t until that moment that the shoe finally dropped. From the audible intake of Avi’s breath, he got it, too.
“It was you,” we both said.
“What was me?” Carson said.
“You publishedBorderline.”
Carson huffed an irritated sigh. “No.Jake FieldspublishedBorderline.”
“You know perfectly well that Jake Fields is Avi’s pen name. The Harcourt series is his intellectual property. You had no right to pretend to be him.”
“I didn’t pretend to be anybody. Jake Fields isn’t a real person. It’s abrand.Borderlineis my fresh Jake Fields rebrand.”
“You can’t do that. While author names aren’t always unique, their story worlds coupled with their names are protected.”
Carson waved a hand in front of his face as though swatting away an insect. “That’s why I waited to publish until the full seven was up, even though it only took me five to write the book.”
“That dreck took him five years?” Avi said, at the same time that I said, “Full seven what?”
“Years, you moron.Years. You know, the length of time you have to wait before somebody is declared dead?”
I rubbed my eyes with one hand while not easing my hold onAll Inwith the other. “Carson, there was no question over whether Avi was alive. He died in full view of most of the town. There was a body. A funeral.”
“I’m not talking aboutAvi. I’m talking aboutJake Fields.”
“Yes, so am I. You understand how copyright works, don’t you?”
Carson’s face resembled Gil’s when I tried to foist a healthier cat food option on him—an equal mix of confusion, mistrust, and outrage. “What are you talking about?”
“Copyright protection lasts for the author’s lifetime plus seventy years, or, for pseudonymous works, the earlier of ninety-five years from first publication or 120 years from creation. Avi wrote those first few chapters ofBorderline, and the only way you could have included them is if you stole them out of his wastebasket.”
“I didn’tstealthem. He’d thrown them away.”
“Pretty sure removing something from a house without his permission counts as stealing, regardless of where the item is located. In any case, a writer’s work is copyrighted as soon as it’s on the page, whether that page is physical or electronic, published or not.” I jerked my chin at him. “Since you have your own key, I’m guessing you walked in on Avi when he was working, didn’t you?”
“I knocked. He didn’t answer.”
“I was wearing noise-canceling headphones,” Avi said. “Trying to focus.”
“So you barged in anyway?” I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice. Ireallyhoped Ricky was still on the line, but I didn’t want to risk checking behind me to make sure. “And then you coshed him on the head with a freakingliterary award?”
“It’s not like hedeservedthat award.” Carson matched my rising volume. “He was ahack. His books weren’trealliterature.”
“Yet people bought his books. Loved them. Begged for more.”
“All the more reason for him to help me educate readers on whatrealliterature truly is. I gave him everything he needed. The character names. The setting. The plot. I did all the work for him. He didn’t have to do anything but use my creativity and inspiration to write the book.”
“Oh, my god.” Avi slapped his forehead. “Is he still on about that? Nobody wants to read about a self-righteous house flipper spouting pop philosophy between tedious descriptions of dry rot.”
I glanced at him sidelong. “Hate to tell you, but…”
He stared at me, clearly aghast. “You don’t mean— Harcourt?” When I nodded, he said, “If I wasn’t already dead, I’d ask you to just kill me now.”
