How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

  “That’s what the president is counting on. Look over here”—I wave my fingers in the air—“and you won’t pay any attention to Drake Dixon. Look over here, and you won’t pay attention to the civil rights violations involved in forcing anyone to submit to having their thoughts monitored, to their thoughts being treated as if they were behavior and then finding themselves surveilled as criminals before the act has been carried out. Look over here, and you won’t worry that it’s not really just going to be people who’ve previously been convicted of a crime; next, it could be anyone. No technology is foolproof, so it might not start out as you, but who knows where it will end up?

  “More on that—much more—in our next report. Back to you, Ty.”

  “Thank you, Cheyenne.” His brow is furrowed. “So you’re saying that ordinary Americans could eventually be surveilled, and their thoughts monitored.”

  He wasn’t supposed to say “eventually”; he was supposed to underscore that ordinary Americans will be surveilled, that that’s where this is all headed, as demonstrated in the next cache of documents.

  We’re live, so I have to go off script too. “It’s imminent, as I’ll show in tomorrow’s report. None of us are immune.”

  “And how did you get these documents?”

  “A whistleblower who works for the government approached INN,” I say. “He’s chosen to remain anonymous, but as I said, the documents have been authenticated.”

  Ty is supposed to invite me over to the couch now. But instead, he says, “Do you have reason to believe in the purity of this source’s motives?”

  Another bizarre ad-lib. I pause, hoping that Albie will come through my earpiece, as I have no idea how to respond. How can you vouch for the purity of anyone’s motives? Ty is weakening the argument that I—that Graham—so painstakingly made.

  “Yes,” Albie says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “In the interest of full disclosure, you have, until recently, been romantically involved with an employee of Until.”

  He’s back on script, sort of. The “until recently” implies that Chase and I are already over, which is not technically true.

  It’ll be over soon enough. Our relationship was an organism of a very particular ecosystem and couldn’t survive outside the shared habitat of Palo Alto, where Chase is a unicorn and I’m just his girlfriend.

  “Why have you chosen to report this story, despite the personal cost?” Ty asks.

  “Because journalism is about the greater good. Our viewers and the country need to know.”

  “They certainly do.” He turns to the camera. “This is not an isolated instance. Rarely do we catch the perpetrators red-handed. Rarely can we follow the money all the way up to the president’s chief of staff.” He looks at me. “Thank you for bringing this to America’s attention.”

  That’s his level of outrage?

  Where are the bulging eyes? Where’s the absolute fury?

  First he undermined the story with his invalidating improvisation, but this is worse. His refusal to be enraged sends a message to the viewers at home. Nothing to see here, folks.

  I’m enraged enough for both of us. Despite the personal cost, I managed to kill, but Ty sabotaged me. Like Rayna did, only this is live, and can’t be undone.

  As the show goes to commercial, I storm off the set, waving Reese away. I take the elevator directly to Edwin’s floor. His office is dark, the door locked. I’m breaking the story of INN’s lifetime (short as that lifetime is), and he didn’t stick around to see it.

  I don’t know what’s really going on here, but I know one thing for sure: Ty undercut me.

  It could be that he’s a narcissist, and after his pay-to-play story flopped, he wasn’t going to help me fare any better. But it’s not just a jab at me; it’s a jab at Edwin, too, who built this up in the newsroom for the whole staff. Edwin is deeply invested in this, and in me.

  If that’s true, then where is he?

  I slide down to the floor, wanting to pound my head against the closed door. Edwin told me he’s playing the long game. I’d assumed that game was for my benefit as well as his. But not only am I a pawn, I can’t even see the board.

  Doing the story seemed like the right move. It seemed like the only move.

  An incoming text from Edwin: I knew you’d pull it off.

  Did you know Ty was going to sabotage me?

  He was playing the elder statesman. Makes the story more credible.

  It didn’t feel like that.

  This isn’t the time for paranoia. If not now, when? Go celebrate.

  The thought of going to the bar where Graham can cop a self-congratulatory feel is nauseating. But heading straight back to my apartment after what should be a triumph seems pathetic. And lonely. I’ve got no one.

  No, that’s never true.

  “Hey, Cheyenne!” Dad’s voice is strained, like he’s trying to sound happy to hear from me.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” It’s possible he got some bad news about his health and hasn’t wanted to distract me while I was preparing. That would be so like him.

  “In terms of the cancer, no news.”

  Which is good news. “Then why do you sound like that?”

  He hesitates.

  “You’re scaring me. Just say it, please.”

  “You’ve been at INN a month. You’ve been with Chase for years.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I never thought I’d have to defend my actions to my father. He saw the report where I laid out all the evidence. “You’ve never liked Chase.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “When he came to Tulip, you were pleasant but that’s it. You didn’t warm up to him, and now I get why. I see what you saw.”

  “He seemed a little high on himself, like he could stand to get knocked down a few pegs. But how could he not have a big head, with the way you treated him? The way you said everyone else treated him. This is more than a few pegs, Chey.”

  “As in, I was too hard on Chase?”

  “He just works there.”

  Dad doesn’t get it, and I don’t have the heart to try to explain it to him. Not tonight.

  “Did you ask him about any of this beforehand?”

  “I couldn’t! I’m a journalist. And of course he knew. Why else would he have done his surprise visit this weekend, of all weekends?”

  Dad finally says, “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then you did a great job.”

  It feels cutting, though it wasn’t meant to be. “I’ve got to go celebrate.”

  “Love you.”

  I hang up without answering, which I never do, because for years, I’ve been living with the fear that each time I talk to him could be the last.

  I take the elevator down to the street, not even stopping at the newsroom, not wanting to look for congratulations that might be half-hearted at best. It’s only a few blocks to my apartment, and usually, I change my clothes and cover my hair. I try not to be recognized. Tonight, I want some validation, some sign that what I do matters to real people.

  Text after text comes in from Chase, protesting that none of it’s true and demanding to know how I could have done this to him. You didn’t even ask me, he says. Like I should have given up my career so he could lie to my face.

  I’m determined to walk with my head held high, and I get appreciative glances from men, but they don’t know who I am. They just see a pretty girl on a busy street. That’s all anyone cares about.

  Beth texts: No one could have done it better.

  It sounds like a consolation. No one could have done it better, and no one will care. Ty as elder statesman? Bullshit. He was killing the story.

  I’M TOSSING AND turning in bed when there’s a knock at the door. I sit bolt upright. The doorman is supposed to call up to tell me I have a visitor. It could be a neighbor, but I don’t know any of them. What neighbor knocks for the first time after midnight?
>
  More knocking. Then a key turning in the lock.

  I’m groping around on the nightstand, trying to find something heavy, realizing just how defenseless I am when I hear Reese’s voice.

  That’s why the doorman didn’t call up. Reese has a security clearance. Maybe she told him she wanted to surprise me. Another fucking surprise.

  I fly into the living room. “You can’t just come in here any time you want!”

  “I was worried about you. You looked really upset leaving the studio. You didn’t answer my texts.”

  “Because I want to be left alone! And I am upset. I’m upset that you’re barging in. I’m upset that you got drunk off your ass at the club—”

  “That’s what people do at clubs!” Reese says.

  “You used me. You wanted to be alone with Pyotr or whatever the fuck—”

  “Pietro.”

  “Pietro the real estate mogul—”

  “Magnate.”

  “If you interrupt me one more time, I’m going to . . .” I look around my apartment madly. There’s nothing on any surface that I can pick up and throw. It’s barren. I have no life here. And I’ve detonated the life I had back in Palo Alto with Chase.

  I sit on my couch, feeling like I need a good cry, but I can’t do it in front of Reese. She works for me. I’m a boss now.

  “I brought Patrón,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  “I also brought red velvet cupcakes.”

  Tequila and cupcakes. I almost smile.

  Reese takes the seat beside me, but not too close. “I’ve been wanting to apologize ever since that night. I was an asshole.”

  “So why didn’t you apologize?”

  “You were so busy working on this huge story. I didn’t want to take up your time. And honestly, I didn’t know you really cared. I mean, you’re the talent. I’m just the peon.”

  “Don’t say that. We’re friends.”

  “I can tell.” Reese smiles. “No, really, I can tell. Because it hurt you that I did such a shitty thing, and I’m sorry that I did, but I’m kind of glad to see that you care about our friendship. Because I do too. I never should have leveraged your fame like that.”

  “The fame thing is going to be fleeting, after tonight.”

  “You were awesome.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Did you see Ty’s nonreaction?”

  Reese puts her hand over mine. “I’m sorry.”

  “So you think I’m right? You think it’s dead?” I was hoping that I was off in my read of the situation, that maybe Edwin was telling the truth about Ty behaving like a grown-up instead of a tantruming child.

  “I have no idea,” Reese says. “This is a really unique story. But even if it goes nowhere, you have a three-year contract, and Edwin’s practically in love with you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Everyone says that.”

  “Because of TMZ?”

  “No, it’s just kind of obvious. You should have seen the look on his face when he was talking about you during my job interview. Yes, he was the one doing the interviews for your personal assistant. You think he does that for everyone?” Reese goes over to the doorway where she’d dropped her paper bag full of goodies. “Enough work talk.”

  We eat our cupcakes. Reese tries to be entertaining, and while I can’t muster much laughter, I appreciate the effort, and the company.

  After she leaves, I don’t even bother trying to sleep. I turn on the TV. INN is showing Spotlight. I’m not exactly in the mood for a movie about a sexual abuse cover-up, as hot as Mark Ruffalo is.

  I’m traversing seven hundred stations when the phone rings. Two A.M. isn’t when people call. It’s when they text.

  Wrong number? I think of Elyse and all those hang-ups.

  I look at my cell and blanch. It’s Graham. I didn’t enter his number into my phone, so for his name and number to show up, he must have entered it himself.

  What if the call is actually something about work? I have another Until report coming up tomorrow night. Maybe Graham is going to tell me he’s revised the script.

  He could have just texted that.

  I don’t answer, and Graham goes to voice mail. But he doesn’t leave one. Instead, he calls back. I have the distinct feeling that he’ll keep calling.

  I could turn the phone off, sending him immediately to voice mail, but that could seem aggressive. Of course, this second call is aggressive. His hand on my leg was aggressive. But I can’t anger him, not in the middle of the series he wrote, not when I’m still hoping to salvage things. Maybe he can get Ty back on my side. Or maybe Ty is already on my side; he’s just playing it classy.

  Hard to believe.

  “Hello,” I say, making my voice as groggy with sleep as I can.

  “Just making sure you got home okay,” he says.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “I’m picturing you right now. The way you looked leaving the studio. You know that old saying, I hate to see you go but I love to watch you leave?” His voice is languid. I can only imagine what he looks like right now, where his hand is. That same hand that was on my leg a few days before. I rub at my thigh, like it can be wiped away.

  “I’m tired, Graham. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “You . . . are . . . really . . . beautiful.” He’s drawing out each word softly, as if in time with his strokes.

  I know sometimes women being harassed blame themselves. They think about what signals they’ve sent, whether they invited the unwanted attention. They make it their fault.

  I’m not doing that. I get exactly what this is. I get that I’m being violated, and that there’s nothing I did to bring it on myself. But there’s also nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t even hang up. I need Graham in my corner.

  He’s so bold, calling the night of my big story. He must know he can get away with this. If I tell Edwin, if I tell anyone, it’ll be my word against Graham’s. I want to think Edwin and HR would support me, but I can’t risk it. I have so much ahead of me, and so much to lose. That’s what Graham—like all harassers—is gambling on.

  It’s my big night, and I’ve never been more insecure about my position at INN. Edwin could hire a new pretty girl, but Graham may be irreplaceable.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, and endure.

  Chapter 25

  July 26, 1991

  Today was a big day. My first cover of People magazine, and I hope it’s not my last.

  I know I should be excited, and I am, but I can’t help feeling that it’s not about my accomplishments. It’s about human interest of the most prurient kind. Dennis offered People an exclusive of my pain. This isn’t how I wanted to land the cover.

  Dennis showed up in my dressing room this morning at the crack of dawn, before even Sandy and Frieda. He held up the magazine, cover facing outward. Vanna White has nothing on him.

  I was sitting in my robe, but apparently, he was no longer concerned about the appearance of impropriety. A little while later, I understood why. It had been an incredibly effective PR maneuver, not just in the wider world but among the Morning Sunrise staff as well. They were practically lined up down the hall, wanting to express their amazement at what a survivor I am. It was as if the chill I’d detected in my first month on the job had been a figment of my imagination, and the Current Affair insinuations are bygones. First they fell in line to believe a nasty rumor, and then they’ll fall in line to demonstrate how compassionate they are.

  I don’t want any of it. I hate that my past has been laid bare like this. It feels so cheap and opportunistic. And that cover is bringing it all back.

  “Stalking Nightmare” was writ large beside my picture. I have to admit, they made me look beautiful—somber and a little bit haunted. Professional hair and makeup plus a two-hour photo shoot will do that for you. I hated that quote: “Your life doesn’t feel like your own anymore.”

  Dennis was crowing about how well I did in the interview. I w
ondered if The Tank could hear from outside the door. That’s what I’m calling my new bodyguard, for obvious reasons. He’s a Dolph Lundgren type with a broad face and short-cropped blond hair, though I’ve never seen Dolph Lundgren in a suit.

  The Tank probably sees women in jeopardy all the time. I’m an old story, a telemovie. I flash on Marla Hanson. Slashes on Marla Hanson.

  “Women will relate to you, and men will want to protect you.” Dennis handed me the magazine. “I want to see your face when you read the good news.”

  My hands tore at the pages. I found the article and skimmed it.

  It was all there, in graphic detail:

  The letters from Lyndon, at least once a day, sometimes as many as ten, saying we were kindred spirits. He wrote about dates. Not dates he wanted to take me on but dates we’d supposedly already had: where we’d gone, how I’d looked at him, what I’d said, how we’d “made love.”

  I’d tried to involve the police from early on. Lyndon was signing his real name and including his address. I thought that they could pay him a visit and tell him to stop sending the letters. But that wasn’t how it worked; his civil rights trumped mine. Sending disturbing letters was only a crime in California. In the other states, you can harass people with impunity, so long as you don’t make direct threats on their life. Lyndon’s letters were invasive, but he never made an explicit threat. So he was protected, but I wasn’t.

  The police tried to make me feel better by telling me Lyndon was “mental” and lived with his mother. They said that these kinds of guys barely left their houses, and if Lyndon actually saw me in life, he’d run the other way.

  Only they were wrong, because I knew Lyndon was watching me. He mentioned places I actually hung out, food I ordered, a purple scarf I bought, things that he couldn’t have known unless he’d followed me. But somehow, I could never turn fast enough to catch him.

  I didn’t even know what he looked like. He was just out there, which was terrifying, so I stopped leaving my apartment, except to go to class and the TV studio.

  I could feel that it was going to get worse. It was a woman’s intuition. Like how you know before you go to a certain party or walk down a certain street or get in a certain guy’s car even though your gut is screaming no, but you don’t want to hurt his feelings, you don’t want to be impolite. You put yourself in danger, and afterward, you’re kicking yourself. You’re thinking, I knew better.