How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

Does Edwin want me to pay too? He said INN was my home; he said I couldn’t afford to leave because it’s not safe on the outside.

  I’ve been fearing the wrong things. The wrong people. It’s like those old horror movies: the calls are coming from inside the house.

  Graham is holding both my wrists in one of his hands now—how can he be this strong?—and his other hand is reaching up my dress. “Just pretend I’m Edwin,” he breathes into my hair. “Don’t cry, Cheyenne. Edwin likes you. Just not in that way.”

  Maybe he’s not going to rape me; he’s just going to humiliate me. Like Luke, with his roving eyes.

  But Graham keeps going, rimming my underwear. I squirm so that his fingers can’t get inside me. “I’m going to scream.”

  “Go ahead. Everything’s soundproofed. People only hear what they want to hear.”

  I’m bone dry, and his fingers are jabbing into me. I let out a moan of pain.

  “See? I knew you’d like that.” His breath is hot and fetid. “Though even your boyfriend said you’re a cocktease.”

  Surveillance. My phone is definitely tapped. Am I being watched too? If only that were true right now. But I can’t rely on anyone else. I need to get myself out of here.

  The diary comes back to me, the self-defense class. No pleading. No appealing to his humanity. It’s active resistance. You run, or you fight.

  It’s the weirdest thing, like I can hear Elyse’s voice, urging me forward, telling me that I can push through the fear, I can find my anger, and I can use it. Then I remember: They’ve got me in these fucking stilettos. I slam my foot down on top of his. This time he doesn’t just yelp, he howls. Most important, he releases me.

  I beeline for the door. I don’t hear him pursuing me, but I can’t be too careful. I take off my stilettos, drop them, and run down the hall.

  Officer Mortimer catches my arm. “What is it? What happened?”

  I look back. The hall is empty. I’m not sure if Graham dashed the other way, toward the stairwell, or if he’s hiding in the bathroom.

  It is the ladies’ room, which is incriminating, but Graham could find some excuse. He went in to check up on me, and I turned on him like some rabid animal. See, he’s the one with the smashed foot. It would be my word against his. A scandal. Humiliation. Judgment. Everyone saying that I’m a liar or that I brought it on myself. I can only imagine the retreads of my video on rape tribunals. Of my naked photos. It wouldn’t matter that I’d been in a monogamous relationship at the time, that I’d sent them to the man I loved, that I’d had the expectation of privacy, that they’d only gone public because of a hack. It would only matter that they were out there, and I’d be labeled. A slut, a whore, you name it. They would only be too happy to name me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Could you take me home, please? Those shoes were killing me.”

  Chapter 30

  I call out of work sick the next morning. I haven’t slept all night. I keep seeing Graham’s face close to mine, and feeling the sensation of being pushed up against the wall, his fingers like grappling hooks. Closing my eyes doesn’t help. Opening them doesn’t either.

  I can’t call the police now. They’ll want to know why I didn’t tell Officer Mortimer last night. Besides, there’s a strong possibility that the NYPD would just collude with INN. Power sides with power, and at the moment, I haven’t got any.

  I checked myself for bruises, and there were none. There’s no semen or other fluids, no physical evidence at all. Could Graham’s attack have been calculated to ensure he’d leave no trace? Could he have done it before?

  He told me to go ahead and scream. That people hear what they want. Translation: No one at INN is going to want to hear this about their golden boy. Or no one’s going to care what happens to me after I botched that story, though I didn’t botch it at all. INN had just reaped what it sowed, after building its audience on the disparagement of the rest of the media.

  Speaking of which, CNN, MSNBC, or Fox would be all ears.

  But with so many sexual harassment and assault claims coming down the pike about rich and powerful men, the viewers might be reaching their saturation point. Graham is small potatoes, just a producer, not a megastar. At home, people will weigh my story against those of the other women, considering the behavior along a continuum, assigning values: the demeaning calls I got from Graham are nothing compared to Weinstein’s bullying, and being rammed against the wall unsuccessfully is little compared to a completed rape. What I’ve been through could be downplayed and dismissed, and that’s if I’m believed at all. I can hear the speculation now about how after my hubristic failure to take down the president, I’m trying to extend my fifteen minutes of fame by any means necessary, that I got here on my looks and my sexuality, and then I want to cry rape when a man tries to follow through on the promise I’ve made.

  I would have to go toe-to-toe against Graham in the court of public opinion. Surely what I did to Chase would come up, with all the attendant black-widow memes about how I mate and kill. To this point, Chase has made no public comments about me (probably at the advice of Until’s counsel), but he could start talking at any time. I can just imagine all the joking tweets about how Until could have stopped Graham, when it was just an idea in his mind.

  If I took my story to another network, what would INN do? I’d be fired immediately, unless sexual harassment provisions prevented that. But if I had to stay there in the midst of an investigation, I don’t even want to think of the sort of attacks I’d face. For three years they own me. The damage they could inflict in that time is too awful to contemplate. I can just imagine Edwin and Daphne justifying it because of how I failed with the Until story, as if I ever stood a chance.

  The only good thing about the series going out with a whimper rather than a bang is that it’s dampening the internet furor against me. There’s a lot of gloating about the president coming out on top. Fine, let them think they’ve won.

  Maybe they have. I’ve never felt so defeated in my life.

  Professor Trent tweeted: @theRealCheyenneFlorian, close but no cigar. Better luck next time!

  I suppose it could look supportive. It will, to anyone who wants to see him in that light, which is everyone on campus. He’s one of the most popular professors. Who wants to believe that he was sexually harassing me?

  Even I didn’t want to believe it, but now I can see. He’s actually gloating about the story falling flat. And it’s because after he groomed me all semester, abusing his power and making me feel like there was no way I could get an A without his direct assistance, he showed up at my apartment uninvited and I did what I should have done the whole time: I said no.

  I don’t know if the cigar is a Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky reference or not. If it is, it’s probably because Professor Trent thinks Monica was the young femme fatale manipulating an older man. That’s the narrative I bought into, the one that the rumormongers fed. I felt grateful for the A that I could have rightfully earned, and guilty that I’d turned him down after all his kindness. Sorry that I’d strung him along, when really, I’d told him that I had a boyfriend. When I’d never asked for his help. It was offered—freely, I thought, only it turned out that it actually came at a great cost to how I saw myself and my competence, and how the other students saw me.

  You okay? It was a rough night for everyone, with the story not turning out the way we’d hoped it would. We’re all missing you here at INN!

  The exclamation point is so unlike the Graham I know that I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or if this is his warped expression of concern, his version of an apology, even.

  This time, I can’t tell myself he doesn’t remember. He wouldn’t have been drinking on the job. He attacked me stone-cold sober, unless you can be drunk on rage.

  He failed. I fought back and got away. That might have to count as a win.

  But he’s still texting me; I’ll have to keep seeing him, and working with him, and pretending that what happened didn’t.
>
  It beats the alternative. Beth might not have gotten away at all.

  The police investigators gave a placeholder press conference about Beth that offered no real information, so on every network and on social media, speculation flourishes. I can’t bear to watch INN’s coverage. I don’t want to see their spin, don’t want to even see that logo. So instead, I watch the other networks, where there’s a nearly vengeful focus on INN and how secretive it is. No one who’s inside talks to those outside, and even the people who’ve left won’t talk.

  Won’t, or can’t?

  I have a contract, and I ought to finally read it, since I’d rather walk away than be run out. Or disappear.

  It’s a daunting task, but it’s blessedly absorbing. Term, Salary/Rate of Pay, Re-assignability . . . that’s all straightforward. Work for Hire—anything I create while I’m an employee of INN will belong to INN. I can’t take any ideas with me, unless I keep them in my head. And off my phone, email, or wherever else INN might be looking. Good to know.

  I’m troubled by a phrase in the Job Description/Duties section that I cruised right by that first day: “as reasonably may be required by Company.” I don’t want to think what Company considers reasonable.

  Termination for Cause: A breach of agreement would include a refusal to perform assigned tasks, failure to comply with policies, conduct that hurts INN’s reputation, insubordination, criminal conduct, and “ethical lapses.” If they want me out, it shouldn’t be hard for them to make it happen. But I have no escape hatch. Under Liquidated Damages, it says that if I quit in less than three years, they could fine me up to my salary, plus all that they’ve spent in training and developing me. Who knows how they’ll tally it up.

  But that’s not the worst of the contract. Conflict resolutions have to be settled in arbitration, not in court, which means that INN will have home court advantage. Then there’s an airtight noncompete clause, which would survive the termination of my employment. In the next section, Confidentiality, it says: “Employee may not reveal company business, trade secrets, terms of employment, general business conditions, current employees . . .” It goes on for a page and a half and ends with, “including the existence of this clause.” As in, this is a gag order so complete that employees aren’t even allowed to reveal that it exists. But it’s not just current employees. The contract specifies that the gag is in effect “throughout the period of employment, and for a period of five years after termination of employment.”

  Five years, under penalty of a ten-million-dollar fine. That can’t be standard in the industry, no matter what Edwin said. He’s been lying to me from the start.

  For now, I’ll have to be careful about everything I say and write. I’m pretty sure I’m being spied on, given the things that Graham, Edwin, and even Daphne seem to know. I was so gullible, never even questioning the “gift” of this apartment.

  I look up at the muted TV and see, “Who is Beth Linford?” I turn the sound back on. Though I missed the beginning, I get the gist. Nothing from Beth’s résumé has checked out. There’s no record of her at her stated alma mater; her previous employment can’t be verified; no family is stepping forward to claim her as theirs. She appeared out of nowhere in 2001 after the September eleventh attacks, just turned up at an NYC news affiliate with tapes of incredible interviews with first responders and victims’ families. She leveraged those tapes into a job, and from there, she worked her way up to INN.

  I remember that strange comment from Edwin about how Beth used to be a blonde, about a rose by any other name.

  So he knows who she really is. Does he also know what happened to her? Is he behind it?

  Chapter 31

  I get a call from my building security. INN’s dropped off another courier package.

  “Could you bring it up, please?” I say. I’m still in my pajamas, using my sick day to try to figure out my next move. Edwin wants me to think all the threats are on the outside, and that the only way to stay safe is to remain with INN. But the first key to self-protection is to quit believing him.

  I answer the knock on my door. As I expected, it’s a manila envelope. I have to hope that Beth is the one sending them, that she’s somewhere, alive. The diaries could be a clue to a present crime, not just a past one.

  August 13, 1991

  B.N. is snoring away. Nothing happened again last night. Nothing, except I don’t just want him as a bodyguard anymore.

  But I know I can’t be with him until I clear everything up with R.G., and maybe not even then. Maybe I need to wait until I figure out who’s after me. Wait until I’m free. Otherwise, B.N. could do what R.G. did. He could decide I’m too much trouble, that he doesn’t want to live this way when he could be with another woman and have it so much simpler. Because the truth is, even if I find out who Someone Else is, there can always be another Someone Else. That’s if I’m successful, and I’m not yet ready to trade my dream for the safety of anonymity.

  R.G. wanted to take me out somewhere nice, but I picked lunch at a deli. I didn’t tell B.N. I was going. I got recognized by the waitress, who fawned all over me, and I was glad R.G. got to see what he missed out on, the good parts.

  He did this long speech about all the stress he was under back in college but said he has no good excuse. He abandoned me in my hour of need, he said. All he wants is to make it up to me. He loves me with all he has.

  I told him he doesn’t have enough. Then I said I forgave him and that we both need to get on with our lives. It seemed like the easiest way to put a period on the end of our sentence.

  He doesn’t want to get on with his life.

  “I’m in a relationship,” I said. “Respect that.”

  He shook his head regretfully. “I can’t.”

  “Then respect me. Respect what I’m saying.”

  “We’re meant to be together.”

  That’s when I got mad. Lyndon thought he knew better than I did too. I’ve had it with men trying to overrule me and make their desires mine. But I had to keep my voice down. People can recognize me. I stood up and spoke, low and definite. “I’m leaving now. Don’t contact me again, please.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m sorry. You still love me.”

  I reminded him that he told me if I never wanted to see him again, he’d listen. All he asked was that I hear him out, and I did that.

  He shook his head again. “I didn’t know how it would be to sit across from you. To feel what we had. What we still have. It’s right here, between us.” He stood up so we were eye to eye. “You feel it too.”

  I don’t know what I feel. I just know what’s good for me, and he isn’t it. I walked out of the deli and I tried my best not to look back.

  It was unsettling, how insistent he was, and that I did feel some vestigial attraction sitting there across from him. But I’m trying not to think about it. I’ve got so much going on professionally. The first installment of “Safety First!: With Elyse” was a huge hit, just like Dennis said it would be. The reaction has been immediate and positive, with lots of kudos for the network and lots of attention for me. So many letters from women telling me their stories of victimization and how much my message of empowerment means to them. More photo shoots and interviews are being lined up. Dennis said that he’ll tell them not to focus much on my past but on my bright future.

  I started the morning feeling pretty good. No calls again last night; looking forward to my next self-defense class. I was getting a special bonus assignment, a reward for doing so well and for “Safety First!” connecting with viewers: an extra segment where I give women safety tips, on the couch with Trish and Dennis, working the tips into the conversation. There are the obvious ones, like “Trust your instincts” and “Scan your surroundings,” but there’s also “Don’t be nice,” reminding women that they don’t need to make excuses for men who seem suspicious. My personal favorite is “Do something gross,” like picking your nose if you think a man is watching you.

  I was get
ting my hair and makeup done when Janelle knocked on the door. My happy mood evaporated as soon as I saw the bouquet of dead flowers in her hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “These were sitting on the floor outside of your dressing room. Should I call the police?”

  “The police won’t do anything,” I said. “There’s no card, there are no fingerprints on dead flowers, and there’s no antistalking law in New York.”

  Someone got into the studio again; someone knows The Tank is gone. Or maybe it’s someone who’s on staff and therefore doesn’t look suspicious on security footage.

  Whoever left those flowers could have had them around for a while, waiting for the most opportune moment. They are dead, after all.

  B.N. says that the staff is full of good people, but he could be fooled. He’s way too easy on Trish, for example, saying that she’s the sole breadwinner for her family, that she has a jerk of a husband and two little girls. We almost got into our first fight when he told me that. Like it’s my fault she has a shitty life and slept with her boss. We’re all responsible for our actions, aren’t we? B.N. is just too good a person himself.

  I know that York can get into the studio, and I rejected him the first time we met. I continue to reject him by not using his business card. Spurned men, even if they’ve only been spurned in their own mind, can be incredibly dangerous. York might look nothing like Lyndon, but they could have everything in common.

  Had. They could have had everything in common. Lyndon is dead. Yet I’m living in fear, déjà vu all over again.

  I’d been feeling so good about getting to be on the couch today with Scott and Trish, trying to empower women and convince them that they’re in charge of their own lives. Is that why I received the flowers now? Is someone trying to throw me off before the segment, just like they left that note when I was cohosting for the first time?

  Maybe this isn’t about insanity at all. Maybe all this has been entirely strategic.

  I burst into the hallway and found Janelle. “Is Trish here?” Sandy had griped that Trish was getting to the set later and later recently, that it was making Sandy’s job harder. If Trish was early today, that would be a pretty big coincidence.