How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

  Unless Beth had me and her whole staff fooled.

  But I still care for her. That makes it hard to sit in her chair knowing what she doesn’t: that it’ll never belong to her again, even if she resurfaces.

  Resurfacing seems increasingly unlikely. The coverage of her disappearance has died down, since there are no leads. It’s nothing but dead ends. That, alone, seems forbidding, like there are some professionals behind it, the kind who are adept at scrubbing away all evidence. Everyone knows the first forty-eight hours are critical, and it’s well past that now.

  If Beth can be erased, so can I. I’m playing with very dangerous men. And maybe women too.

  Despite that awareness, I just have to stay the course. Retreat is not an option, and there’s a show to do.

  MY MONOLOGUE IS first that night, and I can feel that it’s magic. That’s because it’s true: I am just a small-town girl, and it is all too much, and I am under siege by evil network forces. I just couldn’t say that INN is the biggest evil of them all. Not yet anyway.

  After that first segment, it goes downhill a bit. Beth’s show was built around her interviewing skills, and while Albie and I did a crash course, I’m no Beth. The guests were warned not to deviate from their talking points, and thankfully, they don’t. But as I discreetly read questions off the teleprompter, the effect is less than electric.

  Fortunately, the initial speech draws the bulk of the attention. By the next morning, I discover that people believe in my right to skinny-dip without fear of a helicopter invasion. It’s good old-fashioned American values at work.

  During the weekly review of fan mail, there’s a big HAS pile, as usual, and a small pile of general crazies with veiled threats, and a pile of women ACTUALLY SUPPORTING ME! As they share their own stories of objectification and harassment, I feel tears in my eyes—because of all they’ve been through and because they finally recognize me as a kindred spirit, an ally.

  Reese is too distracted and distant to notice. I can’t entirely blame her. After all, I’ve been freezing her out for the past few days, and it’s not like I’m looking to hug it out.

  Then I see that Reese’s eyes are red, as if she’s been crying herself.

  I care, but I won’t ask. I can’t risk softening toward her in case Edwin was telling the truth and she really is behind at least some of what’s been going on. I have to pull away. I’m on my own, and so is she.

  With Graham, though, I have to risk getting a little closer, or rather, making him think we’re closer. Well past midnight, I’m the one calling him from my balcony, hoping he’ll be drunk, that his loose lips will be the ones to sink INN’s ship.

  “I can’t get involved with anyone right now; I have to focus on my career,” I purr, just above a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have needs, you know?”

  “I know.”

  I can practically hear his erection through the phone. I have to fight my gag reflex to continue. “We have to keep our distance physically right now, okay? It’s smarter that way, for both of us.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “Do you want to know what I’m wearing?”

  I start talking, and he starts doing what I want him to do so that he can wind up in an unguarded postcoital state. I have to let him think he’s using me in order to use him.

  “That felt so good,” I say.

  “Amazing.”

  “I’m so wound up all the time, you know? Wondering where I stand with INN, and the viewers. With Edwin. It’s exhausting.”

  “Don’t worry so much about Edwin, okay? He’s not what you think.”

  This is just what I was hoping for. “What do you mean?” Play stupid. That’s the only reason he’s telling me anything at all—because he thinks there’s nothing I can do with it; I’m just his little sex toy. After all, he attacked me in a bathroom and I apologized to him. He’s in total control. That’s what he has to think.

  “INN is barely in the black, and there were a lot of start-up costs. He wanted to be independent himself, but he had to bring in Daphne.” He laughs snidely, as if at Edwin’s predicament.

  “So Edwin has good intentions but he’s kind of lost his way?”

  “I get it. You’ve got a thing for Edwin. But you’ve got to stop being so naive.”

  “You don’t think he’s really looking out for me?”

  “I don’t know what he’s doing these days.” So the right hand no longer knows what the left is up to.

  I’m starting to enjoy myself a little. It’s a rush, like what an undercover cop must feel. I don’t even have to prompt Graham much. He wants to turn on Edwin. He’s looking for the opening.

  “I’m the only one at INN doing real journalism because Edwin’s too cheap to pay for it. Not to mention, Edwin doesn’t even know the difference between good and bad journalism. He doesn’t know anything about how you build a story, what’s really involved behind the scenes. He believes his own mission statement. His own hype.”

  If my phone is bugged—and I’m pretty sure that it is—then it’s clearly not going straight to Edwin. It must go through Graham, who can erase this later.

  This is almost too easy. I’ve turned him into a source, and he doesn’t even know it.

  I learn that INN is basically the emperor’s new clothes. I already knew that it didn’t have many correspondents or news bureaus compared to the other major news networks; Edwin had humble-bragged about it during my tour. But he hadn’t stressed what was getting lost, which is original journalism. It’s possible he doesn’t even get just how much is lost. He thinks you can fire up the viewers and the electorate by stroking their egos and stoking their rage. That’s how low his opinion is of real people. He could stand to spend some time in Tulip.

  According to Graham, the INN staff isn’t finding their stories; they aren’t tracking down primary sources. They call other journalists, ones who do actual muckraking for small print publications and online media, and they convince those journalists to feed their investigations to INN. Sometimes the journalists get exposure themselves as guests; sometimes they’re quoted, or the anchors plug their websites. Ty might put a link on Twitter or solicit donations for a nonprofit here or there. But more often, their work is unattributed and uncompensated.

  The VJs and producers at INN are taught to sweet-talk and cajole the investigative journalists, telling them how important their work is and that it needs to see the light of day. If they want to reach a broad audience, INN is their only hope.

  Graham is describing a network built on exploitation. INN steals other people’s labor, keeps its own operations cheap, and then, ideally, breaks stories big enough to go all the way to the top, where CNN, MSNBC, or major newspapers have no choice but to use their resources to follow it down. Meanwhile, INN promotes itself to viewers as the only voice they can trust.

  It’s working, to a point. INN’s ratings are growing, while other news organizations stagnate or lose viewers. But it’s not fast enough for Edwin. That must be where I come in. Millennial men = advertising dollars. It’s like he didn’t think hard enough about what I would mean to the network’s credibility, with my naked pictures and, now, TMZ. I could be hurting INN’s ability to get the other networks to run with stories, which is why the president could wiggle out of the Until debacle with so little discomfort.

  That brings back how angry Edwin was after the Until story, how he blamed me. But I’d been set up. There was no other way it could have turned out, based on what Graham is saying.

  Graham’s been angry too. I flash back to that night in the bathroom. With the way he’s confiding in me, you’d think it had never happened.

  Maybe he hadn’t even been mad at me; he’d been mad at Edwin. But he couldn’t shove Edwin into a bathroom stall, so he did the next best thing.

  I’m glad he can’t see me. I’m clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to calm my breathing.

  “Edwin has to do something soon,” Graham says. “I have a f
eeling Daphne is losing her patience. She spent big money on Ty’s pay-to-play story, and on Until, and neither of them panned out. She doesn’t have a mission; she just wants a return on her investment.”

  “You think she’s going to stage a hostile takeover or something?”

  “Something. But she better not mess with my stories . . .” He goes on a rant where, reading between the lines, I can tell that his only real interest is that his stories are well funded, and that he remains the only true journalist at INN. He wants to stay at the top of the pecking order among the staff, feasting on their admiration.

  So Graham isn’t feeling so secure, either, these days.

  Is it possible he’s not really as inner circle as he likes to portray? If that’s the case, he might not know what happened to Beth. I might need to cultivate another source, someone higher. I think of Edwin’s recent jealous streak. I’m not sure if I can dance that close to the fire. But then, I already am.

  From what Graham said, INN is a house of cards just waiting for a stiff breeze to knock it down. Desperate people do desperate things. Were those things done to Beth? And who’s next?

  Chapter 40

  Don’t worry, Reese texted, you won’t have to see me around anymore.

  So she didn’t even have the guts, or the decency, to quit to my face. That doesn’t necessarily tell me whether she’s a spy or a saboteur, but it does tell me all I need to know about our supposed friendship.

  I’m too busy to respond. I’m hard at work with Albie on my interviewing skills in preparation for what could be a regular anchor stint on Truthiness. Albie is tutoring me in Beth’s signature move. I have to learn to lull my subjects into a false sense of security before going in for the kill. Could come in handy off-air as well.

  That’s my morning. In the afternoon, I’ll be cramming for a correspondent gig on Khalif’s show. I’m definitely not sidelined anymore.

  First, though, I cram in lunch. Not even an hour later, when I’m back in the studio with Albie, I get shooting pains in my abdomen, so intense that I actually fall to my knees. He rushes to my side, with a concern you just can’t fake. There’s no time to get to a bathroom before I’m vomiting with a violence I’ve never experienced before. My body is determined to expel something.

  This is no ordinary food poisoning. It feels more like actual poisoning. Beth had told me to keep my drink in my hand at all times. I should have extrapolated to lunch.

  I insist on going to the hospital, and Albie accompanies me in the ambulance and into the ER. I’m seen right away, the celebrity treatment. On my way out of the INN building on the stretcher, I saw Nan, so stories must be circulating by now. I don’t even care. I’ve been avoiding the newsroom, and no one’s sought me out either.

  Albie seems genuinely worried, but I can’t help recalling the events earlier in the day. Lunch was delivered for Albie and me to his office. If someone spiked my food, then it happened there. I have no idea if he stepped out for some reason and someone could have snuck in. If, for instance, he was lured out for a conversation and that’s when it happened. But I can’t ask him without tipping my hand. I don’t want anyone to know I suspect. I have to keep playing dumb like my life depends on it.

  There’s little curiosity or suspicion on the part of the medical team as to what caused my sudden illness. Did someone from INN call ahead? Could the hospital be in cahoots with INN, the same way the police might be?

  I would never say any of these thoughts out loud. I’m sane enough to know how insane I’d sound. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

  I’M RELEASED BY nightfall, but my appearance on Khalif’s show has been canceled. Was that the intent? It would have made more sense for someone to sabotage me before my big speech the day before on Truthiness. Reese had been the one who brought me a sandwich then.

  Maybe I was wrong about her.

  I just don’t know anymore, about anything or anyone, past or present. I’m not in any pain, but I’m still weak. It’s so hard to think.

  Albie asks if there’s anyone he can call, who I’d want by my side just in case, and I’m embarrassed to say I have no one. Back in my apartment, I feel emptied from all the vomiting, but from sadness too. It aches, being this alone.

  I call Dad to say how bad I feel. I’m not only talking about the “food poisoning”; it’s everything, only I can’t say any of it. The line isn’t secure, and there’s nothing he can do. The days of thinking my father’s omnipotent are long gone. I’m not his little girl, anymore, much as I wish I could be.

  But he still has his parental sixth sense. He tells me, “You can always come home, baby. No questions asked.”

  “I have a job to do.” It’s a strategic response. The line is bugged.

  “We’ll figure something out. You’ve already done so much.”

  I begin to cry softly. “It’s not nearly enough, Daddy.”

  “You had the president on the run, Cheyenne! And you’re twenty-four years old. I couldn’t be prouder.”

  “You didn’t feel that way at first.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t. You know how important loyalty is. But I watched your next two reports, and I’m glad you put a stop to Until. I’ve always known you to do the right thing, and I know you always will.”

  But the right thing seems to involve so many wrong things along the way. I would never want Dad to know how I got information out of Graham and the way I’m interacting with Edwin—like the cocktease Chase accused me of being. Does the end always justify the means?

  I can’t ask, not on an insecure line.

  “I love you, Daddy,” I say.

  “I couldn’t love you more, baby.”

  I’m drifting off when security calls up to say I have a visitor. It’s Graham.

  My heart starts to thump. “I’m too sick to see anyone,” I say. “Please thank him for stopping by.”

  I hear a muffled conversation, and then, “Your friend here says he doesn’t mind some puke. He just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

  I need to keep Graham on my side. That means I have no choice but to let him up. What’s the worst that could happen?

  He could finish what he started the other night in the bathroom. Or finish what someone did with my food. And right now, I’m too weak to fight him off.

  But I need him to think he’s my friend. It’s a calculated risk. “Send him up,” I say.

  I knot my robe over my pajamas as tight as I can. I’m glad my breath is truly foul, my hair’s a mess, and my pallor is still jaundiced. Just before I open the door, I make sure my cell phone is recording.

  When Graham sees me, the expression on his face is one of profound relief. He makes a move as if to hug me and then plunges his hand back in his pocket. He’s apparently on his best behavior.

  “I just wanted to see you,” he says. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do this to me, but he might know who did.

  It couldn’t have been Reese. That leaves Albie, Edwin, Ty, Luke, Daphne, Rayna, the entire female population of the newsroom, the entire male population of the newsroom . . .

  I feel faint. Graham reaches out to steady me. “Let me help you get back in bed,” he says.

  I absolutely don’t want him in my bedroom. I gesture toward the couch. Once we’re settled, his gaze is so solicitous and tender that it’s unnerving.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks. “Could I run to the store and get you ginger ale or anything? That’s what my mom did for me when I had an upset stomach.”

  It bugs me that Graham got to have a doting mother and still turned out to be a date rapist. I shake my head. No ginger ale; just information, please.

  “I didn’t think you had anyone to take care of you,” he says. “I heard about Reese quitting.” I get the sense that he was pleased with that news. “I was against hiring her.” What doesn’t he have his finger in?

  That’s not an expression I should ever use again when it comes to him. The images of the bathroom f
lood back.

  But Graham keeps talking. Apparently, on the subject of Reese, he has a lot to say. Just like he did with Edwin. “She was always running interference for you. Getting in your way, really. It’s never a good idea to have some sycophantic mini-me swelling your head, you know?”

  What he’s saying is, Reese was looking out for me. She was a friend. A loyal friend, and I betrayed her.

  Chapter 41

  August 23, 1991. The day all Elyse’s fears came true.

  My fingers are shaking as I hold the pages. I know how it turns out, but still, reading what Elyse was thinking in the immediate hours before . . .

  It makes me wonder if those are the same thoughts Beth had the day she was crying by the curb. If they’re the same thoughts I might have someday.

  But I’m going to read it. I’ve been with Elyse this long, and I need to see it through. Regardless of the intent of the person giving these to me, Elyse and I are comrades in arms.

  August 23, 1991

  I fought with B.N.

  I walked into my apartment to find him sitting in front of the television, drinking a beer and watching the game. “You’re home early,” he said.

  I showed him my contract, and then I made a mistake. I told him what happened in Dennis’s office, which meant I had to explain Dennis’s visit to my apartment, which shames me even now. I hear how it sounds. How I sound.

  But B.N. wasn’t thinking about how I acted; he wanted to talk about Dennis. He said I’m worth more than this contract. I’m putting myself at the mercy of a psychopath.

  He thinks Dennis is the only one at fault. I wish I agreed, but I know that it’s tawdry to want something as much as I’ve wanted this job. Of course now that it’s coming my way, there are strings attached. I was upset in Dennis’s office, but I get it now. I have tried to manipulate him. I’ve flirted. I’ve feigned interest in his stories. I’ve looked up at him like he’s the big strong man who’s going to save poor little me.

  I told B.N. I need to be smart. Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m just starting out. Dennis has hurt feelings and a wounded ego, that’s all. With time, he’ll see who I really am. The viewers will.