The Podcast

Chapter 8

Wednesday Morning

The placard sits just above the hood of her black Range Rover SV, the word, 'talent,' written in pale gold lettering. Sumner had always found it somewhat ironic, if not demeaning. Talent was something given. Everything Sumner had, she'd taken. Greedily and without regret, an empire built on a scaffolding of desperation. Sumner took more pride in the calculated and relentless way she'd built her life from scratch than in the mystique of some God-given ability.

Today is an episode launch day. The buzz of energy is blunted now, but still present, a lingering carbonation in the air. Something could go wrong: a file upload mishap. Or the episode could break her previous streaming record as she'd done before. A case could get solved because of its airtime on West Coast Killers. Any of these are possible. Somehow at once both synonymous with the show and simply living in its shadow, Sumner revels more in the rigidity of the routine, the drumbeat of a productive to-do list, than in the sleuthing. The thing that started it all, done with such eagerness, fueled by brutally tender heartbreak, now looks juvenile in her eyes. She'd been a girl then. This hadn't started as a business.

Through the private side entrance, Sumner hears the espresso machine whirring to life, ready to over-caffeinate Podster's finest. AudioHaven Production Studios only took on the best in podcasting, its office right in the center of Beverly Hills, a fantastic fuck-you to the old Hollywood elite who couldn't stand the rise of internet celebrities.

"Good morning, gorgeous!" Benny Wallace, Sumner's podcast producer, smiles brightly as he removes his Prada Symbole sunglasses. His dark skin glows against the pearly whites of his signature grin. He crosses his burly arms over his chest as he waits on his second cappuccino from the in-house barista.

"Morning, Benny." Sumner smiles softly at him, her expression friendly but taut as she mentally scrolls through her extensive to-do list for the day.

"I've got the new ad scripts all ready for you, my love. Moqué alcohol-free canned cocktails, Facia After Hours nighttime skincare set by that annoyingly beautiful influencer, Acacia Styles, you know, the one you sat with at the LA Rising Star awards last November, and Parsley, the meal prep delivery service that I know you'll never actually use because even if everything is perfectly measured out, you still hate to cook."

Sumner slips out a small laugh as the barista prepares her daily vanilla latte without being asked. "I don't hate to cook."

"Oh, please, you got that big fancy new house in the Hills and I bet your oven's never been used."

"Not true," Sumner turns toward Benny, her full pale lips tilting upward, "frozen pizza."

"Ah! Of course, the queen of true crime loves a good frozen pepperoni pizza, how could I forget." Benny's eyes glisten when he laughs, always high energy and in a good mood. A networking machine with the social ease and grace that had always eluded Sumner. Even as the star of the show, the one whose face is on the thumbnail, she knows she'd still be sitting on the floor of her small studio loft apartment, recording from a $70 Amazon microphone with a thick blanket draped over her head if not for Benny Wallace.

"Is Luna in yet?" Sumner nods at the barista before blowing gently on her latte as she makes her way toward her office.

"That little Gen Z wildcard doesn't get out of bed until at least 10:00 AM," Benny rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. He and Luna love each other about as much as they bicker.

"Excuse me? That little Gen Z wildcard is right here, asshat." Sumner and Benny turn to find Luna with a stack of legal contracts in her arms, a cow-print bucket hat sitting crookedly atop a short, dyed platinum bob, short strands too messy to be natural.

"Morning to you too, sunshine," Benny bats his lashes at her, earning a middle finger that almost has Luna spilling the contracts onto the floor.

"I'm guessing those are for me to sign?" Sumner gestures her latte at the stack in Luna's arms as she pushes open the glass door to her office. Luna trails in behind them, dropping the papers with a thud on the glass fiber-reinforced concrete desk, featured in Kelly Wearstler's list of 2021 'Working Woman' favorites.

"Yep." Luna re-angles her bucket hat before slumping into an egg-shaped boucle chair. "They're due by next Friday. Thought I'd get them to you early from the legal department since I know how you actually like to read the contracts like a weirdo."

Sumner smirks slightly as she brings her latte to her lips, expertly scanning over six new brand deals, two interview consent contracts for upcoming features with major magazines, and three podcast appearance term sheets. Despite being one of the top podcast hosts in the industry, Sumner doesn't enjoy being a guest on other podcasts. She prefers the careful and scripted nature of her show to the general babbling stream of others'. But it's good publicity, a more organic way to reinforce awareness for her show among different audiences—her agent's voice mingling with the one inside her head as she reasons with herself.

"Any word on the recent case file request we sent over to the LAPD?" Sumner keeps her gaze on the contracts as she asks the question, mentally calculating how long it will take her to provide red lines and receive edits in time to sign by next Friday.

"Which request?" Luna glances down at her comically large lucite-encased phone before answering her own question. "Oh, the one about the 1980s string of Hollywood murders? I can follow up with them today. They said they'd send them over, but I haven't seen anything yet."

"Definitely follow up and let me know. It's a highly publicized, nearly forty-year-old case. Shouldn't be much of a hold-up." Sumner groups the contracts into piles by type on her desk before looking back up at Luna. "Email them again today and if no word in forty-eight hours, I'll reach out personally or have Benny send a note. I have that case on the schedule for next week's episode and I want to verify the information I've found online with the actual case files. I sent the initial request over a month ago."

Luna bobs her head as she stands, having heard this same request many times during her ten months as Sumner's assistant. "You got it, boss!"

"Don't..." Sumner chides Luna playfully as she turns on her computer monitor to pull up today's calendar.

"But isn't that what you millennials love? All that girl boss shit? Hate to break it to you Sumner, but you're one grade-A girl boss, cringe or not."

"You always act like I'm twenty years older than you. We're only five years apart."

"Lots happened in those five years." Luna takes on a mockingly serious tone as Sumner rolls her eyes.

"Are all the socials ready to go?"

"Of course."

"Great. Come find me after my ad recordings wrap." Sumner opens the top drawer of her desk for a pen as Luna takes her queue and bounds out of the office. Reaching for a red velvety tip, her favorite kind for contract mark-throughs, her finger brushes up against a now familiar cardstock. The edge sharp and crisp, a small papercut slicing the edge of her finger, the surprising sting before a crimson thread forms, a faint smudge staining the cream paper.

She'd uncharacteristically stuffed them in the back of her drawer a few weeks ago, hoping the careless act would make her forget. Would dilute their power over her. But then the third note had arrived, still sitting in the bottom of her glittery purse, tucked neatly in one of the built-in cubbies of her new closet. She tries to convince herself that they are nothing. Just another few pieces of fan mail to add to the pile. But there's something about their taunting tone, their short encrypted riddles that makes the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Because whoever wrote these knew how much they would bother her. The tickling of a riddle begging to be solved. The fear that someone has leverage over her, dangling a secret like a weapon, smirking at putting Sumner West on edge. Whoever wrote these notes knows her well. Too well. And that scares Sumner West far more than disturbing fan mail from a stranger.