The Podcast

Chapter 9

Wednesday Afternoon

Before she opens her mouth there's the comforting non-sound of being underwater. These $2,500 custom-fitted, studio-grade headphones will drop you to the bottom of the ocean, heightening your other senses. The room is dark, how she prefers it. Gentle whiffs of santal float through the slightly cool room, her favorite scent. Beneath her sensible Prada loafers, layered vintage rugs provide an element of handmade softness to the otherwise modern space. There's a luminous red orb from the glow of the recording light. A blood moon hanging in the dark sky. This is where control and escape exist as one for Sumner, a heady confrontation that comes close to peace.

"Imagine it's girls' night. Or maybe, you're pregaming before a first date. What's your go-to cocktail? A Moscow Mule? A skinny margarita? Perhaps vodka and grapefruit? Whatever your go-to drink, I guarantee Moqué has it. The only difference? No alcohol. Now I know what you're thinking: doesn't alcohol-free defeat the whole purpose of a relaxing, calming cocktail to help unwind after a busy week? To help lower inhibitions before a big event? Well, not anymore. Moqué alcohol-free cocktails offer a range of adaptogenic beverages—"

A shout. Sumner pauses. She'll have to start the ad again.

There's a sound at the studio door. Voices growing louder, a shrill puncture to the air. Sumner swivels her head in panic, her audio engineer, Ezra, emerging from his invisible place behind a darkened pane of glass and several computer monitors. Their eyes meet briefly, a mutual confusion, before turning their heads toward the door. Her heart is beating too fast. She feels trapped. Still deep in the navy blue underwater, but the oxygen meter is running dangerously low, only a few seconds left. In her head, an unfurling mental loop: He wouldn't just show up here? Not after all these years, so brazen like this? Perhaps if I'd figured out the letters—

Sumner whips off her headphones like she's coming up for air. She doesn't miss Ezra's surprised expression at her overreaction and is grateful for the darkened veil of the room to mask the rise of color in her face. She smooths her sweaty palms down the thighs of her straight-leg trousers before making a move toward the door just as it flies open, nearly slamming up against the wall like a force had blown it back.

"Look, I already told you! She's in the middle of recording! If this is in regard to an upcoming episode, you can go through our legal team—"

"Sumner West?"

Sumner inhales with momentary relief. A stranger. Far better than it being her father. She takes in his wide military stance, the slight stretch of black cotton across broad shoulders, the pale gold badge glinting on his hip that looks comically similar to a child's prop. His face is made up of hard, tanned planes, black eyebrows slashing two lines across his forehead. He looks like he needs a shave, a nap, and answers... perhaps not in that order.

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Lucas Saba with the LAPD Homicide Division. Sitting far more patiently in the lobby is Detective Melanie Lopez. We'd like to ask you a few questions."