by Holly Brown
Dennis looked me over in my designer sweats, from head to toe, and told me pink is my color. Then he returned to his favorite theme—how much he’s doing to advance my career, always coming up with ways to keep me front and center. I wanted to ask him, What about his promise to keep me safe? How does firing The Tank fit with that? But I needed to show him proper gratitude or he’d never shut up.
I have to make him feel important at all times, but never cross any lines. I know. I’ll put the word out that I’m dating B.N. and let it get back to him.
I tried to forget about Dennis, which was hard since the gym was mirrored.
Val’s my instructor, a woman with graying dark hair, wearing a loose belted outfit, like she’s going to practice karate. She started the class by lying down on the mat and closing her eyes. I got a sinking feeling right away. A moment later, a man covered in a head-to-toe padded suit loomed over her. He put his hand over her mouth. Her eyes opened, and he told her not to scream. “I’m going to take what I want from you,” he said. “If you make any noise, I’ll have to hurt you. Don’t make me hurt you. Nod if you understand.” She nodded, and he removed his hand.
I felt like I’d stopped breathing. It was my worst fear, come to life.
He tried to pull her legs apart. “Don’t resist me. You resist, I’ll have to hurt you.”
She stopped resisting. But as the assailant went to unzip his pants, Val rolled and kicked him in the eye. He fell backward, and she kicked him again, in the groin. She started on his head, kicking repeatedly, until he stopped moving, seemingly out cold.
Val stood up. A second later, the “attacker” stood up too. My heart was in my ears, in my throat, everywhere. No part of me registered it was a simulation.
Val pushed back a stray hair and looked right at me. “You’re thinking, ‘There’s no way I could do that. If someone attacked me, I’d be paralyzed.’ That’s what every woman thinks at the beginning of this course. They all turn out to be wrong.” Val walked slowly from one side of the mat to the other. She was speaking as if it were a roomful of women, and not just me.
“Notice that adrenaline you’re feeling. Over the next five weeks, you’ll learn that it’s your best friend. Fight or flight, you’ve heard that expression before. That’s inborn. Which means you’re a warrior. You just don’t know it yet.” Val smiled briefly. Then she said, “Step on up here.”
I wanted someone else to volunteer, but it was only me on the mats. Me, the surrogate for all the viewers. I needed to be brave.
Val said there’s an “assaultable look,” and it’s not about what you’re wearing. Victims tend to have an awkward gait, rather than a smooth one. But most significantly, they appear preoccupied. They’re not paying attention to their surroundings. I needed to project strength, confidence, and awareness at all times.
As we practiced walking, I actually forgot about the cameras. I felt good, like there was really something I could do. I’m not just a sitting duck.
“Now, the next thing you need to know is that in cases of attempted rape,” Val said, “the best policy is active resistance. Run away, or at least try to. Scream, ‘Fire!,’ not ‘Help!’ What doesn’t work is pleading. You’re not going to get him to feel sorry for you. Rape is about power and aggression; it’s not about sex. He wants your fear. But he can’t have it. You’re using it. You’re using it for motivation. You’re using it to run, scream, kick, punch, jab, and elbow your way out of there.”
I had never thought of fear as motivation, as something I could use. Well, I’ve got plenty of motivation stored up.
“Fight or flight,” Val repeated. “In this case, it’s flight whenever possible, then fight. Are you with me?”
I nodded.
“Say it. Flight, then fight!”
“Flight, then fight!”
“Scream it!”
“FLIGHT, THEN FIGHT!” This time, I felt like I’d rattled the walls. I felt powerful.
Without warning, the attacker sprang at me. I froze, and he wrestled me to the ground.
“Get off, get him off me,” I sputtered, on the verge of tears. He’d exposed just how powerful I’m not. What can happen at any time when I’m not paying attention, when I’m just living my life. He showed how vulnerable I’ll always be.
The attacker let go, and Val was squatting beside me on the mat.
“What are you feeling?” she asked kindly.
“My heart is beating out of my chest. I felt like I was going to die. I mean, I know now how stupid that is, but it’s like, my heart didn’t know. It thought this was real.”
“Perfect. That’s just how we want you to feel.”
“Scared? Powerless? Like I can’t remember anything I’m supposed to do?”
“This time, he surprised you. Next time, you’ll be ready.”
“Because you’ll tell me he’s coming?”
“No. Because you’re going to learn to be ready all the time. This is going to work itself into your subconscious, Elyse.”
“This is what I always feared,” I whispered.
“Good news,” Val said, offering a hand. She pulled me to my feet. “Your biggest fear came to pass, and look at you. You’re still standing.”
I blink back into the present. This entry was so different from the others. I felt like I lost myself for a while, like I was feeling her fear and then feeling her strength, like the person who gave this to me has to be a friend. Like Elyse herself is somehow my friend.
I could really use that right about now, between Beth having to yank me back to the curb and the continued online maelstrom and Graham turning me into a sex toy. Reese has made it clear she wants to be my friend, but get a few drinks in her and all bets seem to be off. Then there’s Edwin. He’s this strange amalgam of friend, boss, and captor. He’s made it clear I can’t get away easily, and not just because of my contract. I need his protection.
But where was he last night, when Beth had to save me?
I still don’t know exactly what happened. It occurs to me that if someone really had pushed me, Beth would have stayed and insisted we call the police. So it must have been a freak accident. Celebrity or not, this city is dangerous.
I go back to Elyse’s Wikipedia page the way I do after each entry, searching for any inconsistencies. While reading the diary entry, I was surprised to hear about Trish and Dennis having an affair, but now it’s showing up on Wikipedia. I check to see when the page has been edited, and it’s today.
By R.G.
Is that the R.G.—Elyse’s ex-boyfriend—or just someone who knows about the diary and is sending me a message?
I go to the comments. People are questioning certain details, asking why sections are as long or as short as they are, just the type of specious debate typical of Wikipedia. Then I see, earlier tonight, that something was added by R.G.:
Which of the following three statements are true?
Lyndon gave Elyse a concussion.
Lyndon locked Elyse in her campus television studio.
Lyndon rearranged her condiments.
Okay, if there’s a message here, what could it be? I reread the statements. All three are true, according to the diary.
So someone is trying to tell me that Elyse was lying, or crazy. Or that the diary is a fake. Or maybe they’re telling me to look for R.G. Or that I’m nowhere close to safe.
Chapter 28
I’m staring at the television, rapt. Edwin is beside me on the couch, his body unusually taut. Daphne’s on the other couch, nearly supine, cocktail in hand. She’s in a suit, as unwrinkled as her face, though I know the levers and pulleys involved in that illusion. I’ve seen behind the curtain, but only because Daphne wanted me to.
The president is in the Rose Garden. “Jim,” he says, “first question.”
“Everyone’s talking about Until—”
The president interrupts. “Let me be clear. I’d never even heard of Until before this nonsense report. We’re not talking about some huge gove
rnment program. An R&D payment was made, which is not unusual, by the way, we do it all the time. I wasn’t a part of any discussions because it wasn’t a big deal. You know me by now: I’m only involved in big deals.
“Since then I’ve been briefed. I don’t like what this is all about, and I’m pulling the funding. I’m investigating who was involved and why certain decisions were made, and we’ll go forward from there.” He looks around. “Barbara.”
“So, to be clear, you’re saying that prior to the INN story, you knew absolutely nothing about Until—”
“Correct.” He chooses his next reporter. “Daniel.”
“I’m not sure Barbara was finished.”
The president smiles. “She’s finished. Daniel, what’s your question?”
“In the documents, there are a number of references to your reelection campaign and how Until is an attempt to bolster your image in advance. Were you aware of the potential for Willie Horton/Drake Dixon comparisons and the need to appear tough on crime?”
“I am tough on crime. People talk all the time in Washington. It’s a town full of blather. If I paid attention to every single thing, I’d go crazy, and I’m the sanest person you’ll ever meet. So when it comes to this company, this Until, I knew nothing. Now the media is trying to make it into something. But I’m moving on.” He points. “Phil.”
“The recent jobs report . . .”
As the journalists ask questions on multiple topics, never once returning to Until, I can feel anger radiating from Edwin. He turns off the television, and it’s swallowed back up into the ceiling.
“Well,” he says, “I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”
“We knew the president would deny it,” Daphne says, her tone soothing.
“No, I meant from the media. They’re going to let it drop. They’re going to let him have the final word. He tells them to move on, and that’s what they’re going to do.”
“They’re talking about the Until story a lot,” I venture. I didn’t put myself in the cross hairs of the woman-hating fringe for nothing. “Until is shutting its doors. We’ve stopped the collusion between the White House and a private company that would have harmed the American people.”
“There’ll be another Until,” Edwin says, looking disgusted.
“Edwin’s right.” Daphne sets her drink down on a side table. “The media is happy to let this one drop. They did their thing for a news cycle, had all their pundits line up to form a united front, insisting that the president provide answers, and then they covered their own media firestorm. He denies everything, like they knew he would, and now they’re done.”
“Because it’s INN,” Edwin says.
“Yes,” Daphne responds. “Because it’s INN.” Seeing my confusion, she adds, “They hate us, Cheyenne. We expose their hypocrisy at every turn, and this is payback.”
“But we did the right thing.” I look back and forth between them. “We did what the fourth estate is supposed to do. We uncovered a potential atrocity. We brought it to light and now Until is dead.”
“It’s about respect, Cheyenne. Don’t you get that?” Edwin says. “They have five Washington correspondents, and we have one. We don’t have the billion-dollar infrastructure, but we scooped them. We led the charge against the president, but they don’t want to follow. They won’t give us the satisfaction.” He smashes his hand against an end table. “It’s the country we’re talking about here! Those petty motherfuckers!”
It’s the failure in his own model. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too: attack the other networks but also get their backing. He bit the hand that feeds him, like Chase said.
“Well,” Daphne says, unfazed by Edwin’s outburst, “the good thing about the news is, there’s always more of it.”
Edwin turns to me. Turns on me. “You never believed in the story, did you?”
I chose INN over Chase, over my own safety, and Edwin is sitting here doubting me. “Of course I did, or I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Even the day of the first report, you were questioning it.”
“You were on the fence until the very last minute,” Daphne says.
“But I did everything I could to sell it!” Neither of them responds, which is clearly an indictment. “Ty didn’t back me! He didn’t even get mad.”
“This isn’t about Ty,” Edwin says.
“You have to take responsibility,” Daphne adds coldly.
So they’ve got their party line. This is my fault, not Ty’s. After all, his value’s been proven, while mine is still in question.
It’s not fair. My job was to bring in the millennials, and I’ve done that. If the network can’t get respect from CNN, MSNBC, or Fox, that’s on Edwin. And Daphne, too, it looks like.
If it were just Edwin and me, I might be able to get him to understand. He’s seen the error of his ways before and apologized. But I don’t think he would with Daphne there. “I should get back to work,” I say, standing up.
I’m almost to the door when Daphne asks, “You haven’t heard from Beth, by any chance, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“She hasn’t come in today, or called, and no one’s been able to reach her.” Daphne waves a hand. “But I’m sure everything’s fine. I just thought that since you two were close, she might have told you something.”
“No,” I say faintly, “nothing.”
As I step out into the hall, I’m remembering Beth’s last words to me: I can’t pull you into this.
Chapter 29
By the afternoon, the newsroom is swarming with police. They’ve set up a command center in the conference room. Because it’s glass-walled, I can see Beth’s staffers trying to hold themselves together through the interviews. The prevailing view is that INN is Beth’s life, and the only thing that could keep her from work is unspeakable.
I might have been the last person to see Beth alive. She yanked me back from the brink, and now she’s missing. Are the two related?
No, that doesn’t make sense. Beth was already crying when I saw her. Meaning, something had happened before that.
I’ve been thinking more about what those three things on Wikipedia had in common, and it’s that Elyse didn’t tell the police about any of them because she either wouldn’t be believed or there’d be nothing the police could do about it. In Palo Alto, after the viral video, the police had been sympathetic but useless. I’m hoping they can do more for Beth. Is the message from R.G. that I shouldn’t trust the NYPD? If so, can I trust R.G.?
I can, if R.G. is Beth. Otherwise . . .
The newsroom is distraught and somber. Though Beth is a maternal figure to many, not just me, no one has met any of her family or friends. Everyone seems to be realizing, simultaneously, how little they know of her private life.
But the show must go on, and INN needs to find a fill-in for Beth tonight. It won’t be me since I have the final installment of the Until story. I’ve been given an abridged script to practice. Edwin’s prophecy has come to pass, and the coverage of the story on other networks and online has dwindled significantly since the press conference. The only way to revive interest would be to directly link the president to Until, but INN has gotten only as close as the chief of staff. While we can unveil more documents to show how deep the conspiracy goes, we can’t demonstrate how high. We can’t refute the president’s claim that he was never told. So the final installment’s been gutted, and with my current mental state, I can’t say I’m sorry.
On the set of Ty’s show, the atmosphere is tense. There’s a miasmic cloud of anger coming from Ty before he’s even on the air, which is unusual. The leadoff is the president’s press conference, and Ty makes the point that just because there haven’t yet been documents to connect the president to Until, that doesn’t mean they won’t emerge later. Even to my ears, it sounds face-saving. Worse, it sounds like a line from the administration: what I said might not be true yet, but just wait.
Only INN to
ld the truth. That’s what’s infuriating. We scored a hit on the administration, and if the president doesn’t know what his own chief of staff is doing, shouldn’t that count for something?
It should, but it doesn’t. I perform my truncated stand-up, knowing there will be no walk to the couch tonight, that I’m being shunted off-air as quickly as possible. I’m worse than garbage. I’m yesterday’s news.
But Beth might be tomorrow’s.
As I head for the bathroom, no one on the set will even look at me. Baby-faced Officer Mortimer is in conversation and doesn’t seem to notice I’m leaving. They really gave me New York’s finest.
I’m about to lock the outer door of the restroom when it flies open. My spine connects with the sink, and while I’m too dazed to react, Graham is the one locking the outer door.
Then he’s grabbing me by the wrists and pushing me into a stall. “I knew we never should have trusted you,” he hisses. “Not with something this big.”
“Let go of me.” I’m struggling, but he’s strong for his size. Now he’s slamming me into the wall. I have to position my legs around the toilet to avoid falling in the water. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so terrifying. “It’s not my fault.”
“Of course it’s your fault.” His eyes are wide with amazement at my naiveté. “You put a spell on Edwin, and he gave you our best story. You can’t carry something like that. You’ve got no gravitas. If it had been someone else, the president couldn’t have—”
“The president couldn’t have what? He’s the president! And we’re just INN!”
“You fucking bitch.”
Now I begin to struggle even more furiously, but he holds firm. He grinds his face into mine, his tongue a weed whacker in my mouth. I bite down, and he yelps. Instead of letting go, though, he pushes harder against me. I can feel his erection, but I know this isn’t about desire. Graham isn’t afraid of reprisal for what he’s about to do. The men are united against me, scapegoating me for the failure of the story.
