“Brynn. Question for you. How many murders did Patty LaRusso commit?” “Um.” I look up from my Excel spreadsheet to see Lindzi Bell, one of
the associate producers for Motive, leaning expectantly into the doorway. “Well, she was involved in three deaths, but one of them was ruled an accident. So, technically two.”
It’s my third week at Motive, and so far my schedule seems to be “whenever you can show up,” as Lindzi puts it. Lindzi is my supervisor, and I spend most of my time here in what she calls the Pit—a windowless room with a long table where a dozen research assistants sit behind laptops
—working on projects like cataloguing female serial killers.
Lindzi shakes her head, sandy curls bouncing as she rolls up the sleeves of her perfectly fitted wrap top. She’s thirtyish with a face full of freckles, and dresses like she just came from a very expensive yoga class. The kind where you wear all your best jewelry. “Let’s delete her. Two’s not enough to make the cut.”
The guy next to me, a gangly hipster named Gideon, mutters, “Way to slack, Patty” as I dutifully remove Patty LaRusso from the spreadsheet.
Lindzi ignores him, eyes still on me. “Also, I wanted to talk to you about the roundtable we’re having in Scarlet later,” she says.
When I first started working here, I only understood about half of what Lindzi said, because a lot of her conversation takes place in shorthand. But now I speak the language of Motive a little better. I know that roundtables are meetings where producers give updates on stories in progress, and Scarlet is the big conference room next to reception. All the conference rooms are named after characters in Clue. “Try to avoid holding meetings in Mustard, if you can,” Gideon told me on my first day. “The table is always sticky. No one knows why.”
“What about it?” I say eagerly, spinning in my chair.
Today’s roundtable is a big deal for me. I gave Lindzi my Mr. Larkin summary as soon as I arrived, and she got back to me a few days later with notes. “I like it. There’s something there,” she said, and I felt a quick, happy burst of pride. Then last week she suggested I introduce the story at the next roundtable.
“Are you serious?” I gulped. “Motive is going to cover Mr. Larkin?” “That’s not what introduce means,” she said kindly. “It’s just a chance
to get more input on an early concept, so don’t get too excited.”
“You sure you want me to do it?” I asked, then immediately regretted the question. I needed to be confident, not tentative.
“Why not? It’s your idea,” she said. Then she winked. “Also, to be honest, it’s going to be a pretty sparse roundtable with a light agenda. A lot of people are traveling, or still on vacation. So consider it a practice run among friends.”
Now Lindzi crosses her arms and leans against the doorway. “So, it turns out that today’s roundtable is going to be a lot less casual than I thought. Ramon d’Arturo is here for it.”
All the research associates murmur “Ooooh” in unison as I blink at Lindzi.
“Who’s Ramon d’Arturo?” I ask.
“New senior exec, joined a few months ago from ABC. His job is to get us picked up by a bigger platform.” Lindzi lowers her voice and adds,
“Ramon and Carly clash a lot. He’s all about growing the brand, and his ideas can be pretty old-school. He also loves to poke holes in stories, so I’m thinking today might not be such a great day to present William Larkin.”
“What? No, it’s fine,” I insist, my stomach plummeting at the thought of all my careful preparation going to waste. “I don’t mind. Critique is part of the job, right?”
Lindzi looks doubtful. “It’s not part of an internship, typically. You were only on the roundtable schedule in the first place because…” She trails off at my expression, which is probably in the range of crestfallen.
“Because you didn’t think anyone would be there to hear me?” I finish. “It’s for your own good, honestly,” Lindzi says. “I hate presenting in
front of Ramon, and I’ve been a producer for five years.”
“I want to do it,” I say stubbornly, even though I’m not sure that’s actually true.
“Let me see what Carly thinks,” Lindzi says. Then she’s gone, bracelets jangling as she waves to someone in the hallway.
Gideon heaves a mournful sigh. “It was nice knowing you, Brynn.” “What? How bad can it be?” I ask. “I’m just introducing an idea.”
“Oh, you sweet summer child.” Gideon shakes his head. “There’s no introducing when it comes to Ramon. I can guarantee you, if William Larkin is on the roundtable agenda, Ramon already knows more about his case than you ever will.”
“That’s impossible,” I protest. “I was Mr. Larkin’s student.” “As I said,” Gideon says, “it was nice knowing you.”
“I’m ignoring you now.” I turn back to my female serial killer spreadsheet, trying to pretend his words haven’t caused an anxiety spike.
I keep working until a few minutes before four-thirty, when I make my way to Scarlet. There are ten leather chairs around the table, mostly filled by producer types like Lindzi. Already it’s a much bigger meeting than the “practice run among friends” Lindzi originally described. She waves to me while patting the empty chair beside her, and the butterflies in my stomach take full flight.
“Carly said go ahead,” she murmurs as I approach.
“Great,” I gulp. No backing out now.
I take a seat just as Carly strides into the room, deep in conversation with a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses. My first impression of the two of them is that they match; even from a distance, I can tell he’s the kind of person who commands a room without even trying. Carly catches my eye and flashes a smile before settling into a chair at the head of the table. The tall man takes a seat beside her, smoothing his tie down his chest.
“Okay, everyone,” Carly calls out, and the chatter instantly dies down. “Ramon is joining us all the way from New York for today’s roundtable, so let’s give him a warm welcome.” The tall man inclines his head, as a chorus of hellos and a smattering of applause fill the room. “Excited to have your input, as always, on what I think are some very interesting concepts.” Carly gazes around the table until her eyes settle on me. “Most of you know our intern, Brynn, who’s sharing a story idea for our consideration today. It’s one where she has a personal connection, since the victim in question was once her teacher. Brynn, do you want to start us off with the William Larkin case?”
Oh God. Nothing like getting right to it. “Of course,” I say, opening my laptop.
Ramon peers at me over his glasses. “We’re letting interns pitch stories now?” he asks in a deep, rich voice.
I swallow nervously as Carly says, “We’re a flat organization, Ramon. Ideas can come from anywhere, and personally, I love the initiative. Go ahead, Brynn.”
“Okay,” I say, but my voice is a lot shakier than it was ten seconds ago. Relax, I tell myself. Just do everything you practiced last night. “I thought we could start out by meeting Mr.—by meeting William Larkin in his own words.”
I stab at a key on my computer. A video springs to life on the whiteboard in front of the room, and there he is—my former teacher, wearing a white shirt and his lemon tie. Mr. Larkin is seated in my old classroom, smiling at whoever’s pointing a camera at him. “I enjoyed
working at the Eliot School,” he says, brushing a lock of wavy dark hair out of his eyes. “But Saint Ambrose is something special. I love this school’s commitment to educating students from every walk of life to such exceptionally high standards.”
I pause the video and say, “William Larkin recorded that for Sturgis Cable Access in March 2018. A month later, on April 12, he was dead, found bludgeoned to death in the woods behind Saint Ambrose.” I hit another button, and a collage of photos fills the screen. Mr. Larkin’s staff directory photo, our eighth-grade class picture, and several candid shots— him helping Mr. Solomon haul a bag of fertilizer during recess, serving chili at the All-School Potluck, and manning a booth at the annual book fair. “He was a popular teacher, beloved by all his students, and he was also—”
“A void,” Ramon d’Arturo breaks in.
A few people inhale sharply, and my cheeks instantly flame. “I’m sorry?” I say. My hand goes instinctively to my charm bracelet, and tugs at the familiar links.
“Ramon,” Carly says tersely. “Brynn was speaking.”
“I apologize for interrupting,” Ramon says. “But there’s a core issue we need to address.” He gets to his feet, grabs a marker from the ledge below the whiteboard, and writes WHO CARES? in giant capital letters over Mr. Larkin’s head.
My jaw drops as Carly says, “She was just telling you that.”
“She’s telling me he was a good teacher,” Ramon says. “Which is wonderful. But normally when we pursue a story of this nature, there’s a grieving family looking for answers. Parents who share childhood memories. A fiancée or partner who lost the love of their life. Siblings pointing the finger at people they never liked. But William Larkin?” He shrugs. “His body was identified by his roommate. The local papers interviewed his colleagues, not his family. Because apparently they don’t exist.”
“Wait, what?” I blurt out.
Ramon’s brow furrows. “You didn’t know that?” “I…” Am at a loss for words.
“Did your teacher ever mention his family in class?” Ramon presses. “Or a close friend? A girlfriend, maybe?”
“Um.” All eyes are on me again as I search my memory. Surely he must have, and yet…absolutely nothing comes to mind. When Mr. Larkin talked to us, it was always about us, and it never occurred to me to question that. I just assumed it was his job to care more about his students than himself. I didn’t even think about his family and friends while I was pulling my roundtable presentation together, which now seems like the most amateur of oversights.
Lindzi was right; I should have backed out when I had the chance. “No,” I admit. “Never.”
Ramon nods. “I’m not surprised. The Sturgis Police couldn’t find any relatives, and none came forward. Details of the burial were handled by the Saint Ambrose staff. Like I said, the man was a void.”
I’m not sure which is worse—that it took Ramon less than five minutes to expose me as a true-crime novice who neglects basic research, or that he keeps calling Mr. Larkin a void. I want to defend Mr. Larkin, or maybe myself, but Carly speaks up before I can do either.
“And that’s a story, isn’t it?” she asks. “Why was this handsome, intelligent young man, who was well-liked by his students and his colleagues, so isolated?”
“It’s not our story,” Ramon says. “Motive needs the personal element for our viewers to care, and it’s going to take far too many resources for us to even scratch the surface here. My recommendation is that we kill the idea.” I wince, because there’s something awful about hearing that word while looking at Mr. Larkin’s smiling face. Almost like he’s dying all over again.
“You’re not giving it a chance, Ramon,” Carly says. “What about the kids involved? They were barely questioned, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of them have very wealthy and prominent parents—” “There’s one more thing,” Ramon interrupts. He smooths his tie down
his chest, gold cuff links flashing, and even though I’ve never played poker, I’m suddenly reminded of someone who’s about to reveal a winning hand.
“One of my Vegas sources tells me that Gunnar Fox is chasing the same story.”
Everybody reacts as though Ramon just tossed a heap of garbage onto the table. Faces twist, nostrils flare, and more than one person says “Ew.” A half dozen side conversations break out as I unlock my phone and hastily Google the name. Results come up quickly: a former Las Vegas sportscaster who was fired for s*xual harassment and who recently launched a true- crime show called Don’t Do the Crime that he broadcasts on YouTube and his Facebook page. Basically a Motive copycat with a skeevy host and no credibility.
“Why on earth would Gunnar Fox be chasing this story?” Carly demands.
“According to my source, he claims to have some kind of inside scoop,” Ramon says. “But it doesn’t really matter why, right? The point is, if you move forward, you’ll be wrestling with that pig for interviews. You’ll get dirty, and he’ll like it. There are too many other stories worth your talent to waste time on this one.” His eyes flick toward me, and if he wanted to make me feel an inch tall, mission accomplished.
Carly levels a penetrating gaze at Ramon, but all she says is, “Noted. Let’s move on for now. Tucker, do you want to tell us about the Echo Ridge case?”
I slump in my chair as Lindzi hurriedly scribbles a note on her pad and slides it over to me. *DON’T FEEL BAD,* she wrote in all caps. *HE’S LIKE THAT WITH EVERYONE.* I manage a weak smile, pushing the pad back to her, and try to focus on the rest of the meeting. She’s right; everyone else’s pitches get criticized too, but none as harshly as mine. As the roundtable finally wraps up, I quickly gather my things, desperate to escape back to the relative safety of the Pit—even if Gideon’s “Told you so” is waiting there for me.
“Brynn!” Carly’s voice halts me in my tracks. I look up to see her focused on her phone as she adds, “I need to take this call, and then I’d like a quick sidebar with you and Lindzi in Mustard. Wait for me there, please.”
“Ugh, Mustard,” Lindzi mutters under her breath, and my heart sinks as I follow her out of the room and down the hall. Carly didn’t sound pleased—at all. Instead of impressing her, I’ve embarrassed her, probably ruining my chance at any journalistic redemption.
“I’m done here, aren’t I?” I blurt out as Lindzi closes the door behind us.
“What?” She looks confused, setting her laptop on the chair next to her, and holds up a hand as I move to place mine on the table. “Don’t. It’ll stick.”
“Can’t they just, you know, clean that?” I ask, momentarily distracted as I juggle my computer and notebook on my knees.
Lindzi lets out a heavy sigh. “Trust me, we’ve tried.”
The door bursts open, and my pulse quickens when I see Carly’s expression. She looks furious, and I brace myself for the dreaded *You’re fired.* Instead, she shuts the door, leans back against it with her arms crossed, and says, “That asshole needs to learn who’s in charge around here.”
