The Podcast

Chapter 38

Wednesday night

Sumner glances over nervously at the recording light, casting a ruby haze over the small room.

"Well, you know, night owl and all." Ezra enters the space, clicking the door shut behind him. His head is covered by the hoodie of a blue UC Santa Barbara sweatshirt. "What are you doing here so late?"

Sumner doesn't miss the slight edge in his voice. Her mouth opens to respond but she snaps it shut. Does he already know that Ina's dropped her? Is he going to try and kick her out before she can trim her audio and publish it to Podster? All she needs is two more minutes. Then it will be live. Her message will be sent.

Or maybe he's offended she'd think to record something for West Coast Killers herself, without his help. They were a team after all. Having spent countless hours together in this very room over the past two years.

But of course, once he heard it—the audio she'd just captured—it would be clear why she had to do this recording alone. Without him.

"I just—I needed to get a message out. With everything...that's been going on recently." The words feel too benign. Everything that's been going on recently. Like run-of-the-mill work craziness or internet rumor drama. Not like seven six innocent victims who had been brutally murdered because of her podcast.

Because of her.

Their deaths painstakingly modeled after words she'd spoken into the microphone that's still recording live, sitting hot by idle just a few feet from them.

"Sorry, let me just turn the mic off—"

"What did you say?" Ezra moves in closer, the small space of the studio suddenly shrinking even further, the air feeling heavier, harder to inhale.

"I'm sorry?"

"In your recording, what did you say?"

Sumner feels her heart rate speed up again, something rough and dark in Ezra's eyes. His pale skin glows under the red light, the brown freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheeks appearing more distinct.

"I just felt I needed to send a message. It was nothing really, hardly even the length of a featured ad."

"To your fans?" He takes another step closer, slipping the hoodie off of his head, releasing his messy bedhead array of pale brown curls.

"No. Not exactly." Sumner takes a step back, feeling the wall meet her heels.

"To who then?" Ezra tilts his head in an attempt to look curious. But all Sumner reads is anger. A side of him she's never up close and personal before.

"To someone...someone from my past. Someone I never really knew but who I think may be..." Sumner trails off, her breaths coming in short choppy waves. "Well, someone who I think may be behind all of this."

"Did you address them by name?"

"Ezra, please—"

"Just answer the question, Sumner. After all," Ezra gestures toward the glass control booth where he's spent countless hours of his life monitoring every detail and fraction of her pitch and tone, "I can always just play back the recording."

"It's my show, Ezra. You'll hear it when it goes live. Along with everyone else." Sumner's tone is severe but laced with fear as her eyes dart toward the door, wishing Ezra hadn't closed it behind him. They'd spent so much time together in close quarters for years. But in all that time, how much had she really talked to him? Asked him questions about himself, his life? Their relationship has been so one-sided. Not unlike the relationship she shares with millions of listeners—just her voice flowing in a singular direction.

"Well, not according to your contract with Podster." Ezra lets out a staccato laugh, the sound acidic. "Every West Coast Killers podcast episode is set to be reviewed, edited, and engineered by me. If you publish that without my permission I'll have no choice but to tell Ina."

So he doesn't know yet? Sumner's eyes widen at the thought.

"You're not going to call Ina, Ezra. That's ridiculous."

"Oh, I think I might. I take my work very, very seriously, Sumner. I always aim for the utmost attention to detail. After all, isn't that why you've let me work for you all these years?" He smirks and the expression looks unnatural on his face. Sumner shudders at the way his thin lips tip upward, transforming his face from boyish to wicked.

"Ezra, I'd like you to leave. Please. I came here to record...alone." Sumner's voice is completely hollow, her sweaty palms flat against the wall behind her as her legs tremble above the knee.

Ezra moves in closer, his hands hidden in the front pocket of his sweatshirt as he comes to stand right in front of her, his eyes dark and distant.

Then he pulls an object from his pocket, its metal edge slanting sharply under the red light.