David Greene
President and Executive Director, WBS News
Oh my God.What could have happened in a little more than an hour?
There were no fewer than one million thoughts going through Kenny’s head and breathing certainly wasn’t one of them. In fact, she may have forgotten to breathe altogether. Before she had time to process what was going on she could hear David Greene’s voice coming at her from the other side of the phone. She wasn’t sure if she dialed him, or he called her. But she knew she needed to regain her composure to verbalize something, anything.
“Clinton White sat down with NBC!” the usually docile executive barked. “He gave themhoursfor an interview. He gave them access to the homestead—a tour of the house where the murder happened! He gave them old home videos and family photographs. He even gave them his children’s report cards and homemade Father’s Day cards they crafted when they were students at Sidwell Friends School! For Christ’s sake, Kenny, what the hell happened?”
Alarmed by the delivery, but mildly relieved by the absurdity of it all since Clinton White was incarcerated—and it would have beenimpossiblefor even the most stealth reporter to contact him—she confidently asserted, “David, I apologize for any confusion but that’s not possible. White has been sitting in a cell since his arrest last year, no media can get to him. Where did you hear this?The Daily Mail? It’s probably just that tabloid trying to stir drama. You know they’ll conjure up anything they think will drive viewership.”
“In fact, Kenny, yes, I did read it inThe Daily Mail,” David scolded in a stern tone that was unfamiliar—and scary. “And onPage Six. And in theDaily News. And inPeople. It’s even in the goddamnNew York Times!”
“I . . . I . . . I don’t, I don’t under . . . I don’t kn . . .” she sheepishly stammered, again grasping for words.
The only thing she knew for certain was that now shewas notbreathing, and her heart dropped further down her insides like the ball at Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The drop was fast and slow, at the same time. The only thing missing was the ten-second warning.
“I don’t know what you do or don’t know or understand, Kennedy. But understand this: I want to know how this happened, and I want to know that you will never lose a big interview like thiseveragain,” David chided with emphasis on the word ever.Click.
Find out what happened. Okay. Find out what happened? What? How the hell am I supposed to find out what happened?
None of it made sense. The relationship and trust she built with Luke and Lonnie Locke over the months, was any of it real? Or was it all one of those crazy dreams that she mistook for reality?
Before calling the Locke Brothers to attempt to piece together the career-killing events that were unfolding in front of her, she scrolled through her emails. The contents were nauseating. Headline after headline and links to articles about the get of the decade. The get that was supposed to be hers.
The Daily Mail: “Dr. Love’s NBC Interview Will Leave Viewers Blushing”
New York Post: “Harvard Hottie Gets Intimate in NBC Exclusive”
New York Daily News: “NBC Woos the Love Doctor”
People: “Dr. Love Spills All to NBC”
The New York Times: “Clinton White Breaks Silence in Primetime Exclusive Interview”
Kenny began to get lightheaded. Her stomach turned and head pounded. Her hands were clammy and eyes stung as they welled with tears. She had to get in touch with the Locke Brothers to try and fix this mess. She launched an aggressive communication outreach assault. Both of their cell phones went straight to voicemail and Helen, the office manager, didn’t pick up the landline. Emails were met with out of office replies. Text messages weren’t read.
Kenny found the “Send Read Receipt” phone feature stalkerish and creepy but liked that Luke and Lonnie always had theirs enabled. Until now, when she knew they weren’t reading her texts. Not only did the Locke brothers promise her an interview and give it away without warning, but now they were blatantly ignoring her.
WTF.
She chucked her Kombucha bottle in the trash can; her ability to swallow disappeared with her ability to verbalize a sentence. She collected her belongings and, this time, shuddered when she looked out the window. The glass, fogged up from the heat and humidity still pouring out of the hot room, was like the state of her head. The golden rays of sunshine had given way to swirling, angry gray clouds that blanketed the city. The skies looked like they would open at any moment.
Mental note: Add “Buy umbrella” to to-do list.
Five
By the time Kenny reached Amsterdam Books, the rain was driving down in sheets. Yoga mat under arm and drawstring bag strapped to her back, it took every ounce of focus to not slip out of her flip-flops, breaking an unpolished toe or twisting an ankle. The weather had taken a complete one-eighty in the last ninety minutes, and she seemed to be the only New Yorker who didn’t get the memo. The rest of the city was outfitted in wellies, rain slickers, and heavy-duty umbrellas—not the cheap, disposable ones vendors peddle on street corners. They were dressed for the Whirlpool Jet Boat Tour at Niagara Falls, not a walk on the beach like she was.
As she rounded the corner onto her block, a yellow cab cruising north on Amsterdam Avenue was nearly swallowed whole by a crater pooled with water, and the liquid that spun around the tires sprayed her like a garden hose nozzle on the soaker setting. Defeated, drenched, and unscathed—except for her ego, reputation, and career—Kenny peeled off her clothes before she even had both feet through the door. Stripped down to nothing, she rummaged through her closet to find a medium-weight plush, microfiber robe that accidentally ended up in her suitcase after a stay at the Four Seasons in Houston a few years ago. She wrapped herself up in the cozy security blanket, grabbed her computer, and plopped down on the couch.
From: Luke Locke
To: Kennedy Sloane
CC: Lonnie Locke
Subject: Word travels fast, huh?
