Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 1
The studio lights come up as the audience cheers; easy-listening jazz plays over the speakers. Standing at a cocobolo desk, I hold my professional smile and posture until the applause lights turn off and the noise dies down. Behind me, a phony vista of the Manhattan skyline twinkles and glows, watermarked by my name repeating itself in a pattern of diagonal lettering.
“Welcome back, everyone. You know my guest today as the host of Right and Reason with Dirk Shannon, the most viewed podcast across all the major platforms. We’ve been trying to get him on our show since the beginning. Everyone, please welcome Dirk Shannon!”
He walks in from the end of the stage, his pearly white smile aimed at the audience like a cannon. Wearing blue jeans, a white shirt and tan jacket, collar unbuttoned and no tie, he waves with all the good looks and casual confidence of a movie star.
Dirk Shannon is a fucking idiot. If he didn’t have ten million listeners per episode, he’d be holding up a sign in Central Park and scaring away tourists, or maybe ranting on a subway train while commuters pretend not to notice. Now they give guys like him multi-year contracts and diet supplement endorsement deals.
I give him a big hug because I’m Kate Atwood: friendly, attractive and not afraid of a little polite physical contact. Kate Atwood isn’t a prude.
“How are you, Dirk? Thanks for being our guest today,” I say, gesturing for him to sit down on the couch next to my desk.
Our guest, I have to say. Not my guest. They may call it Kate Atwood Live, but this isn’t my show, it’s our show. The audience doesn’t just spectate — it participates.
“I’m good, I’m good,” he says. “Thanks for having me on! You know, a year ago I never thought I’d be on LPN. I gotta be honest, I love your show. It’s great to be here.”
Somewhere, if he hasn’t passed out pounding an entire bottle of Jose Cuervo, my friend John is punching holes in the wall. He never thought Shannon would be on our network either, except maybe as the subject of some viral video full of disinformation.
“Well, it’s good to have you,” I say. “Now, I think we need to start with the elephant in the room: your recent comments regarding the death of Victor Sovereign. It’s been close to a year since he died, but you said in a recent episode that you believe otherwise.”
“That’s right, Kate. I’ve been conducting my own investigation into the matter and what I’ve uncovered has been shocking. I have seen reports from credible sources that Sovereign is living under an assumed identity in Rio de Janeiro.”
You fucking liar. You stupid, lying idiot trash. Victor Sovereign is dead. I shot him, five times. It’s one of many memories that get me through my days.
The irony is that Victor did, in fact, fake his death, but that was before I killed him for real. There is no way Shannon has any evidence that Victor is alive. He has not uncovered anything. If I could, I’d call him out. If I could, I’d drive my thumbs into his eyes and bash his head against the desk until his skull’s softer than a month-old jack-o-lantern.
Does that make me a psychopath? Have I lost my mind? A little, probably. I was glad I killed Victor, but he was trying to murder me… and… me and Ingram. Then I strangled Edward Lonergan to death with my bare hands — but he tried to murder me too. Shannon’s not a killer, he’s just a pathological liar with a good publicist.
If I’m going to murder anyone, it won’t be an idiot like Dirk Shannon. It’ll be a real monster, someone who really deserves it.
Anton Ford.
Jamison Hardt.
Evo Griekin, Merwin Locke, Timo Thor and all the rest.
The Masters.
There are so many names on my list. I know I’ll never kill all of them. If I somehow manage to kill a single one it’ll be the last thing I ever do. Still, I dream of it every night — scary, happy dreams.
This isn’t who I’m supposed to be, but it’s who I have to be.
For him.
In my other dreams, I’m not alone anymore.
Ingram’s with me. We’re together, and we’re happy. I feel the touch of his lips on mine; he holds me tightly in his arms.
Kate, he says. I love you.
He never lets me go.
If only I could stay asleep and live in that world. I miss him so much. Being with him is the only thing that keeps me sane — even though it isn’t real. His memory gives me the strength to persist — to hope that I might survive this hell.
Though, if I never woke, that would be okay. But I do; every day I get up and come to this studio and talk to these people while millions watch and believe.
My next question to Dirk Shannon should be, Where is this evidence?
Or maybe, Who is conducting this investigation?
Or, if I could, Have you no shame?
Instead, I ask, “Why do you think he’s in Rio de Janeiro?”
And just like that, I’ve given credence to a lie. I have no choice.
“Well, it’s a city where one can disappear into a crowd, make connections and bribe local officials. Where better for a man who’s supposed to be dead? Of course, there’s no reason to believe he’s staying there. A man like Victor Sovereign can’t linger in one place for very long. Sooner or later he’ll be recognized, so he has to pick up and move. That means he needs resources. He needs associates who can get him documents, currency, weapons…”
I let Dirk talk. He has more than enough bullshit to go on as long as he wants. After six months of this charade, I can do it in my sleep. Just ask questions to lead the guest from one subject to the next. There’s an outline on my desk, should I need it.
Somehow Victor Sovereign leads to government drone surveillance, which then turns into a screed on government overreach on everything from guns to farm subsidies. It’s pure drivel, but Dirk speaks with an unflagging fervor — which is probably why so many people watch his show every week. He knows how to get people good and mad, even if they’re not quite sure what they’re mad about.
“Kate, what are you thinking?”
I’d tuned him out. I’ve lost the thread.
“There’s a lot to think about there,” I lie. “What I want to know is, what can the average person do about it?”
When in doubt, bring in the audience.
“I’m glad you asked!” says Dirk. “I’m calling on everyone in your audience and at home to keep their eyes open.”
This gets him going on until Stephanie, my producer, buzzes into my earpiece to wrap it up.
“Dirk, thank you so much for coming on the show,” I say. “I hope you’ll be back soon.”
“Anytime, Kate.”
I turn back to the crowd, standing up and stepping around my desk.
“That’s our show, ladies and gentlemen. As usual, remember what I say: never stop asking questions. You can learn something from everyone and everything from someone. Arthur Henderson is up next, as always, to pick up where we leave off. See you tomorrow.”
The audience applauds; Dirk stands and gives a bow, like he’s some circus performer.
The stage lights darken as a pair of security guards march up to me. Dirk tries to approach, but they get in his way. Before anyone has a chance to say a word to me, I head backstage.
I say nothing as an assistant takes off my mic and I hand over my earpiece. Stephanie watches in silence. I don’t think she likes me. I wouldn’t be surprised; I’ve never said a word to her that wasn’t part of the job. When the show’s over, I pretend I’m alone. I don’t speak to anyone — none of the writers, or the assistants, the cameramen, makeup, catering — not if I don’t have to.
Someone’s always listening, after all. I never see them but they’re always there. I’d rather my coworkers think I’m a stuck up bitch than have my monitors think I’m asking someone for help.
I don’t want to get anyone killed.
As soon as we’re done, the guards usher me to the elevator, then out the loading dock to a limousine waiting. They don’t touch me; I come along willingly. Built like Greek gods, there’s no chance I could ever fight them off or run away. They know I won’t even try — even if I managed to escape, the consequences wouldn’t be worth it.
Once we’re in the car, tinted windows hiding me from the curious eyes of New York’s pedestrians, the guards fasten a metal collar around my neck. A slender, simple ring, it locks into place with a click. One wrong word between here and my apartment and the collar will shock me until I pass out. They tested it on me at full power once, so I’d know how it feels. I’ve made sure not to give them an excuse to use it again.
The guards walk me into my building, ride the elevator to my floor and see me to my door. An unseen operator remotely triggers the lock. I don’t have a key anymore. They won’t let me carry a jagged piece of metal, and they want me dependent. The purse hanging from my shoulder is just for show: it’s filled with wadded-up paper. No money, no identification, nothing I could use to defend myself or attack someone else.
I head straight for my bedroom, not wanting to receive a shock from the collar. Of course, it isn’t a bedroom anymore: it’s a padded cell. I raise my arms over my head, allowing the guards to strip me. They examine me, searching me just in case I somehow managed to hide something in my ass or pussy; when I would have pulled that off is a mystery, seeing as how they watch me at all times.
Once I’m clear, they shackle and chain my hands and feet, then gag me with a thick, rubber bit. Then they lock the door. Someone will show up later to take me to the bathroom, then feed me dinner: either a plain turkey sandwich or a garden salad.
On my birthday, they brought me a slice of pizza.
A television built into the ceiling turns on, replaying the interview with Dirk Shannon. Groaning, I lie down on the mattress and dig my face into my lumpy pillow. After a second, the TV blares a warning klaxon.
They want me to turn over and watch the show.
“Not today!” I shout, the words garbled by the gag. “Please!”
The alarm sounds again. They’re not messing around.
Fuck you, Anton.
I would cover my ears, but the chain locking my wrists to my ankles won’t let me reach that far, not unless I curl into a ball, and I’m too tired to move.
The replay of today’s show turns off, then I hear a familiar LPN breaking news cue. After a moment, my voice fills the room.
“This is Kate Atwood with a breaking news report. According to an FAA spokesperson, air traffic controllers have lost contact with a private jet en route to Newark International Airport. The craft disappeared off radar shortly after takeoff, and has presumably crashed into the Caribbean.”
After a career in investigative journalism, I gave my first live news report for LPN to report my own boyfriend’s disappearance, feeding tabloids and conspiracy forums for months. In one highly unproffesional and savagely opportunistic move, I bulldozed what had been a respectable career.
“It’s unknown how many were aboard the jet, though it was registered to a man named Ingram Dent, a wealthy business consultant. All occupants are presumed dead, though a search will be conducted for the missing aircraft.”
Anton couldn’t contain his smile as I recited his script. As if losing Ingram could be made more painful when it was still so fresh. Now, though, hearing it all again, I scream. I howl at the security camera high out of reach in the corner of my cell and protected by a mesh cage. I shriek until the alarm drowns me out, then go silent.
Don’t, Kate.
Don’t give Anton your pain. That’s what he wants.
How can’t I though? He knows exactly how to hurt me.
Numb yourself.
I wish it were that easy. I wish I could rob myself of hope — stamp it out forever and accept my fate. Hope leads to disappointment, but it also keeps me going. It gives me the will to endure this hell. Hope is all I have. Whether I believe it or not, it tells me what I need to hear. Every night, it’s there, whispering in my ear in a soothing, familiar voice.
Someday this nightmare will be over, Kate.
I promise.