The Podcast

Chapter 23

Monday evening

"So, you wanted to frame your father?"

"Yes. I wanted to frame him."

"But the note—"

"The handwriting wasn't his. And despite discovering my dad was capable of fucking my best friend behind my back, I still didn't think he was really capable of murder."

"So someone else knew? About Chloe and your dad?"

"Yes."

"Chloe's boyfriend?"

"No, he wasn't clever or brazen enough."

"You make it sound like you admire the killer."

"Well, they haven't been caught yet, have they? Not sure I'd use the word admire. Impressed, perhaps. They've eluded your team for years as well as my own independent investigative work."

"And you have no idea who that person could be? The one who left the note?"

"No, unfortunately. I've spent years of my life trying to figure that out."

"But," Lucas drags a hand across the stubble of his beard, "you weren't looking for the killer when you started your blog. Not really at least. You were looking for anything that could help frame your father."

"In the beginning, yes."

"When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"With who?"
"Your father?"

Sumner's expression traps down, her cheeks hollowing, further emphasizing their defined shape as she sucks in a small breath. "About two hours after I found Chloe in our dorm room. At the police station in Santa Barbara."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you say to him?"

Sumner twirls her wine glass, pursing her lips. "That I knew. About him and Chloe. And that I wished he was dead too, stabbed right along with her."

"Christ."

"It was...an emotional moment."

"I can imagine." Lucas stares at her profile, the delicate slope of her nose, the gentle pillowing of her lips, so at odds with the harsh words on her tongue. "And not a word since?"

"Nope."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did you do? After Chloe's murder?"

Sumner twirls the stem of her wineglass for a few anxious moments before tipping her head back and draining the plum-colored liquid. She frowns for a moment, the wine too dry inside her mouth. "After the news swept over campus, I dropped out. I had no one. The two people that I'd been closest to in my life—my dad and Chloe—both died on that day as far as I'm concerned."

"What about your mother?"

"She died when I was two. Car accident." Sumner refills her wine glass, not wanting to meet his dark eyes. "Don't feel bad, I never knew her. But Chloe and I had been neighbors since we were like three or four. Her parents split when she was seven and we spent all of elementary school begging my dad to marry her mom so we could be sisters for real."

"Ah."

"Yeah—pretty awkward in hindsight, huh?" Sumner lets out a humorless laugh, sipping her wine more slowly this time. "Anyway, I moved in with a struggling actress, Mirabelle Lancaster. No idea where she is now. We shared a shitty one-bedroom in Downtown Los Angeles. I slept on the couch. I took whatever freelance writing jobs I could find on sites like Fiverr and Upwork. And at night I started my own blog—trying to make sense of what happened to Chloe. And, admittedly, scoured for any shred of evidence that could frame my father. That he could be tied to the murder. I became obsessed."

"And that grew the blog into the podcast?"

"Right." Sumner laughs, a sourness to the sound. "It led to the podcast, to this house, to everything." She waves her hand absently, an ironic flick of her wrist.

"And through all of that—becoming one of the most famous podcasters in the world—your dad never reached out? Even once?"

Sumner lifts a shoulder casually but the movement can't camouflage the tightness of her neck, a vein snapping against the delicate skin of her throat. "He may have at some point. I changed my number when I dropped out of college. I was being hounded day and night, either with condolences or accusations. People claiming they knew the killer or were the killer. All just harassment really. Not entirely unlike my Reddit thread today." Sumner smirks but her eyes are empty, lost in a painful memory. She sips her wine before setting the glass back down on the counter, a faint pink ring marking the pure white marble.

Lucas rubs the back of his neck, taking a healthy sip of his wine even though it's not his drink. Too much on the tongue and not enough burn in the throat.

"That note that you took from the scene, do you still have it?"

"Detective Saba, are you asking me to admit to you that I tampered with and or destroyed evidence from a crime scene?" Sumner tilts her head, reaching again for the bottle of wine when Lucas grabs her wrist, stopping her.

"Just Lucas asking, not Detective Saba, remember? Like I said, you have my word on that." Lucas releases Sumner's wrist, their eyes both locking briefly on where he'd held her before returning to face one another. "There's a lot of things I'm shit at, but keeping my word isn't one of them."

"Well then, Lucas," Sumner lingers a beat longer on his name, "let's go to my office."