How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

  B.N. knows about the condiments. I’ve told him everything, and he has my spare key. But he would never try to frighten me like this. Unless he’s angry about R.G. . . . ?

  I’m talking crazy. Writing crazy.

  Maybe B.N. let some of my history slip to someone else on the show, someone who’s angry that Trish was shafted and blames me.

  Or it’s Someone Else completely. A viewer I’ve never met. A fan. An autograph seeker. Anyone on the street.

  I’m not safe. I’m never, ever going to be safe.

  Chapter 34

  You think you can fuck your way to the top?

  Just see where you wind up.

  I’m in my chair, stunned, when Reese comes back with lunch. Seeing my expression, she rushes to my side. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  I hold out the note. It was left on my desk while I went to the restroom, meaning someone was watching me. Waiting for their moment to strike. Officer Mortimer is still supposed to escort me to and from INN in the morning and at night, but his duty outside my office was a one-day affair. I don’t really understand the NYPD’s danger determination. It could be based on my social media, which is calming down. They have no way of knowing that within the network, everything’s ratcheting up. Unless the police are in on the conspiracy too. How else could they have absolutely no leads on Beth?

  Reese is scoffing as she takes the note from my hand. “Don’t let this get to you. It’s juvenile. Worse, it’s banal. This is just what females do to other females who are more successful than them. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Nothing to worry about? Beth is missing. Graham attacked me. There’s a possibility that someone shoved me into oncoming traffic. I’m still getting anonymous diary entries, and I’m no closer to figuring out whether they’re from a friend or a foe.

  “Every bully’s a coward, right?” Reese says. “Your dad tweeted that.”

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but I’m really scared.” With the office potentially being surveilled, it’s okay to say that. If Edwin knows I’m scared, he’ll think I’m more likely to get in line. To do what I’m told.

  If my office is being surveilled, then there’s evidence of who left the note. I just need to get that video.

  “I have an idea,” Reese says. “Let’s go away this weekend.” She pulls out her phone and begins texting. After less than a minute, she looks up triumphantly. “I’ve got us a place that’s totally secure. It’s basically a compound in the Hamptons. You couldn’t be safer, really. Plus, it’s gorgeous.”

  I don’t have to work this weekend, and I’ve never been to the Hamptons. I’ve been fantasizing about going to Montana, of standing at the arrivals terminal and seeing Dad coming toward me in his dingy Ford pickup, so old that it has bench seats always covered in potato chip sediment. The idea of just curling up and watching a movie with him at home in Tulip is almost too wonderful to contemplate. But it’s just a pipe dream. I can’t let him see me like this, and I don’t know if my presence would put him in danger.

  I nod, and Reese claps. I wish I could feel that type of excitement. My emotional repertoire has narrowed drastically of late. Maybe the Hamptons can widen it.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Edwin summons me to his office. It’s jarring, having him smile and hand me a lime rickey as if nothing’s changed. “How are you, Cheyenne?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I know you were close to Beth. This can’t be easy for you. Her going missing, and now all the questions about her identity.”

  “What do you know, Edwin?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No one knows who she is or where she is.”

  “You didn’t do a background check when you hired her? You’ve been so thorough about mine.”

  “She’d been in the business so long. Since September eleventh. I felt like she’d been vetted by the industry. But I have to tell you honestly, if she shows up again, she won’t have a job. This is news. Her credibility will always be in question.” He looks into my eyes. “I’m scouting for her replacement.”

  So all the sucking up has worked. I’m back in his good graces. He might hand me a show. Beth’s show. This isn’t how I want to get ahead.

  “Beth thought so highly of you,” he says.

  Thought. As in, she is no more. But then, anyone might assume that by now. “I think highly of her too.”

  “I know you’re loyal. I saw how you struggled with the Chase situation. But you need to realize, it’s business. It’s not a betrayal. You didn’t do this. She did.”

  “She did what?” Edwin might know why Beth was crying the last time I saw her. He might be the reason.

  “She fabricated her whole life. I hope she’s okay, I really do, but when it comes to news, she dug her own grave.” At least he has the decency to seem disturbed by the phrase now that he’s uttered it. We’re both quiet for a few beats. “A lot is still up in the air. But I wanted to feel you out, see if you want your hat in the ring.”

  I want to say no out of basic human decency, but as with the Until story, someone’s going to get the opportunity. It could be someone with murky motives, like Ty, instead of someone with integrity, like Khalif. If it were me, I’d get to shape content. I’d be running pitch meetings and having a say. With a platform like Truthiness, I could have a significant positive impact.

  But I’d be getting in deeper when I don’t even know what’s going on at this network. When I can no longer trust Edwin.

  There, I finally admitted it.

  It’s hard, though, when he’s sitting there looking so sincere and so caring. “I’m committed to you, Cheyenne,” he says. “I combed the entire country, the entire cyberworld, for the right girl. The one I could take from obscurity and turn into a broadcast superstar. I still think you’re the one.”

  The right girl. Not the right woman.

  That’s what this has been about all along. His ego. Maybe the rumor Chase told me was true, and INN was just a dare. I could be a bet.

  I’m Edwin’s creation, a reflection of him. That’s why he was so angry the other day. My failures are his, even when I haven’t failed. The president of the United States had to answer questions based on my series, but it wasn’t enough. Edwin can’t accept half success.

  He owns me. I finally read the contract that proves it.

  “What do you think, Cheyenne? Do you want to be considered for the job?”

  The contract talked about reassignments. But this doesn’t sound like an order. It sounds like a question, with only one acceptable answer. Which pretty much makes it an order. “Yes.”

  He smiles. “Good. I’m proud of you, thinking about your career.”

  “Being ruthless.”

  He takes a sip of his drink. “I prefer ambitious.”

  But whose ambitions are they, really?

  Chapter 35

  Another day, another courier delivery. I open the envelope along with the bottle of Patrón that Reese left the other night, and I say my usual prayer: Please be from Beth.

  Or should I say Trish?

  I’m not sure why more people haven’t figured it out, or why I hadn’t thought to look up photos of Trish sooner. From what I can tell, she didn’t get any plastic surgery. She just waited long enough, ten years, to reemerge from hiding after everything went down. Green-colored contacts, darkened hair, some extra pounds, a new name, and a great reel of interviews from the 9/11 first responders, and she was off and running.

  Has she been sending me the diary because she wanted me to figure it out? Is she still sending it from wherever she’s hiding? Or could it be from whoever might have harmed her?

  If I want to know how I fit into someone else’s plan, I have no choice but to keep reading.

  August 21, 1991

  I’ve been plenty scared in my life, but I don’t know that I’ve ever been THIS scared.

  I don’t eat. I’ve already lost weight, and the wardrobe department has to trade their size 2 for
a size 0. I don’t sleep. B.N. is still in my bed each night, alone, like right now. I haven’t heard anything from R.G. It’s a little insulting, really, for him to declare that he’s not giving up, he loves me too much for that, and then for him to disappear. It shouldn’t hurt, since I already knew I couldn’t count on him, since I don’t even want to count on him.

  But why am I thinking, and writing, about R.G.? I’ve got a lot more important things on my mind.

  It was after the show. My third. They’ve all gone so well, and the ratings are rising by the day. I would have thought I was a shoo-in except that Dennis hasn’t said anything to me. Not one word.

  Tom Shales wants me made permanent, and Scott said he does too. But then he added, “I don’t know why the network’s even talking to anyone else. You were born for this.”

  “Connie Chung?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not as in the loop as I was, now that my contract has been finalized.”

  So he hadn’t used his clout to fight for me and isn’t planning to. I felt a little bruised by that, but it was nothing compared to what was waiting for me in my dressing room. Across the white wall, in red spray paint:

  I WILL KILL YOU, BITCH

  I started screaming.

  Janelle was the first in, with B.N. right behind her. He was holding me up, saying over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay.”

  “I’ll call the police,” Janelle said, leaving the room.

  “The police will have to take you seriously now.” B.N. meant that to be reassuring. But if the police get involved, that could overshadow everything I’m doing on the air. It would become news. Would Dennis like that, this time around, or would he feel like I’m more trouble than I’m worth?

  Dennis showed up and pretended to care, but I could see how he looked at B.N., like some kind of bug. And the way he looked at me wasn’t much better.

  It can’t be Trish. There’s no way she just waltzed into the studio with a can of spray paint.

  The police detectives promised a full investigation. They’ll question everyone in the studio and do inquiries throughout the building; they’ll examine all the security footage. But it’s too late. It’s not going to matter. Someone’s coming for me, and the police can’t help. Self-defense classes can’t help.

  I know my fate. It’s been spelled out, in blood.

  Chapter 36

  I keep seeing those letters too. In lipstick, in blood, superimposed over Graham’s face. I see a hand shoving me into the street, and Beth’s arm shooting out to bring me back. A threatening note. Fingers up my dress. Hate groups coalescing. A show that could be mine. A chess wizard of a boss.

  I’m trying to leave it all behind for the weekend, because Reese made good on her promise. We’re about to be locked down in a beautiful bunker in the Hamptons. But I’m still on edge. Can you be a little bit stalked, or is that like a little bit pregnant? Like Elyse said, just because no one is announcing themselves doesn’t mean no one’s there.

  Reese and I leave the city in a black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows, and its driver looks kind of like The Tank, intimidating, ready for anything. He only speaks when spoken to. There’s a closed partition between the front and back, so even as large as our driver is, he becomes unobtrusive quickly.

  I’m surprised when Reese tells me that the house—and the Lincoln Navigator, and its driver—belong to Pietro. “I ran into him the next week,” she says. “Another lounge, another VIP room. He’s a great guy.”

  “Isn’t he kind of old to do so much clubbing?”

  Reese shrugs. “I like older guys. Don’t you?” It’s the first time she’s even obliquely referenced the feelings that I have for Edwin. Used to have for him.

  “No,” I say, “I don’t.”

  “Would you want to hook up with Pietro?” Reese says. “He’s clearly really into you. And you’re single now.”

  “I thought you wanted to hook up with Pietro.”

  “I did, but then once I saw how he acted with you and how he talks about you, I lost interest. I don’t want anyone who doesn’t want me.”

  Could’ve fooled me, that first night.

  “But he won’t be here this weekend. He’s just giving us the house.”

  “After meeting you twice?”

  “The funny thing about the really rich is that they’re the most trusting. Besides, he knows where to find you. You’re on TV. What are you going to do, trash his house like a rock star? I said we needed some girl time. Some R & R.”

  Just the ride does me good. The city seems a million miles away from Long Island. We drive through a steel gate and then behold the house itself. The manse, as Reese calls it. It’s a massive Colonial, ten bedrooms, overlooking a private beach, with an incredibly high-tech security system. Reese knows all the codes, though she says she’s never been here before, has only seen the pictures. The pool is Olympic-sized, surrounded by lounge chairs and three separate grill areas, the Atlantic as a shimmering backdrop. All the furniture in the entire house is white, or whitewashed, with pale furniture in beechwood.

  I tell Reese I’m unplugging from everything, and when she does check feeds, to do it out of my sight. She can give me information on Beth. Beyond that, I don’t want any news at all.

  I can’t entirely relax, but this is as close as I’m going to get. We’re drinking vodka tonics as we alternate between chlorinated water and ocean, traipsing back and forth like a couple of mermaids. I haven’t told Reese about the diary. I know, based on the dates I’ve cross-referenced with Wikipedia, that it must be close to the end, but I’m less than eager to get there. Being away means that I won’t have to, not this weekend. I’ve grown attached to Elyse, and I’m starting to have that “don’t go in there” feeling you get in horror movies, though I know the futility. She can’t hear me scream.

  That makes me think of Graham, and the bathroom. I tense up and have to work to remind myself that I’m safe, for the moment.

  I grab a novel from Pietro’s library. For a real estate magnate, he’s got quite a collection of classics. Since it’s pretty much the only color in the room, the decorator must have earned her money curating books. I’m only too happy to immerse myself in the much more distant past.

  For dinner, we make a caprese salad with fresh heirloom tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil. More vodka tonics. Reese dares me to go skinny dipping. We do, running back and forth from the ocean to the pool to the hot tub, laughing like kids. Then we drink champagne out of crystal flutes as we float on rafts in the pool. I forget I’m naked, forget that there’s any other state in which to exist. It’s the first perfect moment I’ve had since this whole adventure started. The sun is setting, and Reese and I have our longest conversation of the weekend, trading anecdotes about where we grew up, what we meant to be, and how close we’ve come to those visions.

  “I used to report live from the kitchen when I was six years old,” Reese says.

  “So you’re sure you want to be in front of the camera.”

  “Completely sure.”

  “Even after seeing my ‘fan’ mail and my feeds? Are you ready to be threatened with every implement in the kitchen and tool in the shed?” Those aren’t even the most pressing threats; they’re practically hypothetical compared to what’s INN-side.

  I must be really drunk if I’m making puns like that. But I didn’t say it out loud. At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

  “That’s just what fame is now,” Reese says.

  “To tell you the truth,” I say, draining the last of my champagne, “I don’t think I want it enough.”

  “How can you not want what you’re so good at? What you work so hard to be good at?”

  “Serena Williams said she hates to lose more than she loves to win. I think that describes me these days.”

  I used to want a mission. I wanted to help the country. I wanted independence. It’s hard to believe that not even two months ago, I could have been so naive. N
ow I’m just trying not to lose.

  “See, I love to win,” Reese says. “And I’m going to.”

  I laugh, but it’s serrated. “A natural optimist. You sound like Elyse.”

  “Like who?”

  I’m debating whether to answer that question when what looks like a searchlight starts roaming the pool area. I leap off the raft, stroking toward the side of the pool with one arm, the other across my breasts. Reese, using two arms, is much quicker, halfway to the house already. I want to grab a towel to cover myself, but I can’t take the time to find it. Instead, I run into the house, heart pounding, like I’ve just been through an air raid. I turn off the floodlights outside and the lights inside.

  In the darkness, I can’t see Reese’s face, but I can hear that she’s breathing as heavily as I am.

  “What the hell was that?” I say.

  “I don’t know. Security, maybe?”

  “Didn’t Pietro tell them that we’re here?” I’m trying to cover myself with the white drapes, but it’s too late. I’ve already been exposed.

  Again.

  Chapter 37

  When I get home at three A.M., I’m not surprised by what’s waiting for me. I am surprised that I tear into it, like I’m starving.

  August 22, 1991

  I got it. I got the job. And I don’t even care.

  Whether I stay in front of the camera or not, someone’s coming for me. They’re going to kill me. I can feel it. I just know.

  I could barely hold it together as Dennis sat there behind his enormous black desk in his enormous black chair in his enormous windowed office, lecturing me. Telling me that while some advertisers like the idea of a demographic of younger career women, he needs an anchor who can hold on to their bread and butter, the housewives.

  “Then there’s the vandalism in your dressing room. I let the police know they better be discreet, but it’ll get out. It’ll be a distraction. ‘Safety First!’ was one thing, but having your victimization be the whole focus of Morning Sunrise is something else.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He was actually blaming me for getting a death threat.