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  Temporarily, the DC bureau chief, Bibb Connaught, had stressed when she’d met Natalie the previous Friday. “I don’t want you to be disappointed,” Bibb had said. “Management is looking for someone else to take the job long-term.”

  After twelve years in TV news, five of them at ATN, Natalie spoke fluent Network Politics and did the translation in her head. I’m a seat warmer until someone younger and more connected comes along.

  But Natalie hadn’t spent more than a decade swimming in those shark-infested waters without developing at least a slight taste for blood. Even though Bibb saw her as a fill-in, she knew that she had to treat this gig as an audition. In the parlance of mixed sports metaphors so beloved by network executives, here was an opportunity to take the bull by the horns and knock it out of the ballpark. She was not going to fumble this ball.

  Getting here was the reason she’d sacrificed her twenties working local news in Bakersfield, Phoenix, and Orlando, then doing the overnight shift in New York, before making it to Daybreak at ATN. It was the reason she’d covered quintuple murders, house-devouring sinkholes, and lung-clogging wildfires; going to sleep—alone—before sunset in parts of the country she’d never known existed so she could be fresh for the morning shows while her old college pals were hooking up, getting married, and having kids in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago.

  On the bright side, having no roots meant it was easy for Natalie to jump when she’d gotten the call two days ago. She’d put her New York life in storage, and found a temporary corporate apartment in DC, all in time to have a meet-and-greet with the management of the DC bureau.

  Matt chuckled. Unable to resist her curiosity, Natalie glanced over at his phone. “What’s happening?” she asked impatiently.

  “BamBam brought his son, the rape-y one,” Matt said, grinning as he typed furiously. Then he looked up and declared, “Henceforth we shall call this the Regrettable Sex Summit.”

  Until this moment, the biggest news of the day had been the start of the PanAmerican Summit, a White House gathering of the leaders from seven Latin American countries. The president had ruffled some official Washington feathers by inviting the undemocratically elected, human-rights abusing president of Colombia, Carlos Lystra, aka BamBam, who derived his nickname both from his preferred method of silencing critics and his adoration of the TV show The Flintstones.

  Matt’s news about BamBam’s son, Rigo, was certain to light up tout l’DC.

  Twenty-one-year-old Rigo Lystra was a gossip column gold mine. He’d cut a name for himself on Page Six and the Daily Mail for his frequent visits to New York nightclubs on his G5, his late-night drives through Bogotá brandishing an AK-47 while shouting slogans for his father, and as of last week, a rape accusation lodged against him by the most famous ex-child actress in Latin America, Sonia Barbaro. Sonia was Venezuela’s beloved twenty-one-year-old star of stage and screen who had accused Rigo of violently attacking her in a hotel room after some celebrity wedding in Caracas. Venezuelan politicians, already at odds with the Lystra family, were taking this as an assault on their national identity. Rigo had dismissed the encounter as a night of “unfortunate sex” with a girl who was too “flat chested to be memorable,” and had spent the last week in Bali swimming with the sharks and a number of scantily clad models. Celebrity gossip sites had been saturated with the Rigo photos, while speculating that Sonia Barbaro was pushing the rape accusation as part of a publicity campaign around her soon-to-be released film Trafficked. Now with Rigo in attendance at the president’s summit, any fireworks between Venezuela and Colombia were liable to erupt into a four-alarm blaze.

  “Can we work some puns into the story?” Matt was barking into his cell phone. “Summit Without Consent.” He paused. “Or is that too insensitive?”

  “That’s not insensitive. That’s neuropathy,” Natalie mumbled as she looked down at the list of priority questions she’d painstakingly prepared for the briefing.

  BamBam Lystra is accused of jailing critics, harassing business leaders who deny him kickbacks and there are even reports he’s killing his own people. Why is the US extending him a White House welcome and does the president plan to address these human rights abuses?

  As she glanced over the paper, she felt her stomach begin to tie itself into a bowknot. Her questions were, in the parlance of her four-year-old niece, booooring.

  The sound of Matt’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Did you truly print out your questions? I’m afraid that puts you squarely in the nerd clique. Hot Nerd, but still.”

  Natalie stifled a groan. Over the room’s loudspeaker, a man’s voice announced, “The White House briefing will begin in two minutes.”

  The words sent a flash of adrenaline rocketing through Natalie. In an instant, Matt, nerves, second-guessing were all gone. Pure white-hot excitement shimmered through her.

  In front of her, the front row reporters stood up and turned, rears to the podium, facing the cameras in the back of the room for their live shots. From her seat, Natalie could hear their half of their conversation with their producers in New York: “You’re going small-box, big-box, right?” “So how many of us are in the show of force off the top?” “No, it’s not Ferragamo. Made for me by a family outside of Florence. It’s a bitch to find pocket squares with hand-stitched edges these days. Dying art.”

  Adrenaline pulsing, she pushed her own earpiece deep into her ear and turned up the volume on the box at her waist. There was no sound. She jiggled the volume again. Still nothing.

  “Hey, guys. It’s Natalie,” she said. “I’m here and can be live anytime.” She held her breath, waiting. “Anyone? Can anyone hear me?” Gaping, eternal quiet.

  She turned around to face the ATN camera in the back and gave what’s-up eyes to her camerawoman, who shrugged. Apparently no one from ATN was talking to her either.

  If she’d been outdoors doing a normal live shot—say at the scene of a murder or a dog mauling or a celebrity balcony suicide attempt—Natalie would have stood up and, after a few moments of silence, started waving her arms to get the control room’s attention, first subtly, then moving gradually into c’mon-down-you’re-the-next-contestant-on-The-Price-Is-Right! territory. But the White House was no place for Showcase Showdown moves, so instead she called the Washington, DC, news desk.

  “ATN,” a sleepy desk assistant answered.

  “Hey, it’s Natalie. Does New York know I’m at the White House, wired up and ready to go live?”

  “What?” the girl said, making the word sound three syllables long, and dangerous. Despite having only had a handful of interactions with them, Natalie had taken to thinking of the whole cadre of DC desk assistants as the What Girls, in honor of their ability to turn that innocuous word into an implement of obstruction.

  “Natalie Savage. At the White House—”

  The What Girl sighed. “Hold on, I’ll see if I can find her.” And hung up.

  Natalie called back and got a different What Girl, whom she hoped she’d convinced to track down someone other than herself.

  And then a miracle happened. Natalie’s earpiece crackled to life. Suddenly she could hear ATN broadcasting its show, the anchor talking about the White House briefing that was about to begin. She perked up and said into the mic, “Hey! New York. I’m here, you coming to me?” When no one answered, she tried to get the control room’s attention with a delicate princess wave—hand in front of her chest, just her wrist moving from side to side.

  Her cell phone started to vibrate.

  “Natalie, you do know you’re live on TV, don’t you?” the voice barked. Natalie’s stomach tightened. It was another What Girl.

  “We’re live? Are they coming to me?” Natalie asked.

  “No. You’re live on CNN and Fox and it looks like you have palsy. What are you doing? Bibb says to stop waving like that.”

  “No problem,” Natalie said brightly,
dropping her hand. Never show annoyance, never be less than enthusiastic, she intoned her mantras to herself, two rules she had learned early on. Calmly she said, “I was just trying to get the control room’s attention. No one is talking to me. Do you know when they’re coming to me?”

  “They’re not. They don’t need you on camera. They’re having Heath cover it from the studio. Bibb says you should concentrate on prepping for the briefing. Maybe you’ll get to ask a question.”

  The What Girl said it as though it were a joke rather than a real suggestion. Natalie’s chest went tight as fear welled up inside into her, that echoing, hollow-inside emotion that felt just like a breakup, being found not good enough, not loveable enough—We don’t want you.

  She hung up, sat down, and removed the earpiece as her mind launched into a mess of recriminations. She’d done everything they asked. She’d run toward the Biloxi inferno when everyone else was running away; stayed outside during Hurricane Moe when everyone else evacuated; waded hip deep into snake-infested flood waters because they wanted the shot. And for what? To get here. Where they wouldn’t come to her.

  The mechanics of the briefing clicked on around her, the wall of famous faces was now ramrod straight in the front row, each of them wearing their own version of The Look of Deep Concern (furrowed brow, nodding head), and yelling to be heard over one another at the cameras in the back of the room.

  “We don’t know what he’ll say.”

  “Expecting the press secretary at any moment.”

  “I’d hate to speculate, so I can only guess.”

  They were all saying the same thing—absolutely nothing.

  The blue door on the back wall of the briefing room slid open, sending a flutter along the edge of the flags on either side of the podium with the great Seal of the President on it.

  Matt tapped his left eye with his phone to get Natalie’s attention. “One of your lashes is falling off.”

  Of course it was. She was even failing at keeping her eyelashes on. She reached up and ripped it off, flinching. She crunched the lashes in her hand and didn’t know if it was the pain or the subtle air of excitement that swept over the room, but in that moment her nervousness transformed into resolve. Maybe she was only temporary, but she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. She just had to play their game, and do it better than they did.

  She watched as three serious young White House aides carrying clipboards and wearing unfortunate suits marched through the door and sat poker-faced in classroom-style chairs against the wall, looking as though they’d just been told they were going to have to retake driver’s ed. About four paces behind them came Adam Majors, the White House communications director. Natalie had seen him on television so many times she felt like she knew him. As usual he appeared to be in a state of pique. He stood behind the podium surveying the room with the pinched look of a bachelor tasked with changing a dirty diaper.

  “Welcome to your White House briefing. I’m here to talk about the summit. It’s a glorious event organized by our president, meant to strengthen America and our alliances. And to keep gas cheap.”

  He gazed across the room again like a general studying the horizon for an ambush before looking down at a piece of paper. “I’d like to begin with a statement about this summit. The president of the United States is extremely pleased to be greeting the leaders of seven Latin American nations. Good fences make for good neighbors, and ours are good.” He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the goodness of it all. “We face enemies around the world. That’s why it’s important to be close to our neighbors at home. More so when they have oil. Make friends. Keep gas cheap. America’s going the distance.” He looked up, and Natalie felt her brain try to make sense of those words, but as usual, Adam Majors was conveying a sentiment without a coherent meaning.

  “And now I’ll take your questions about the summit. Melissa?” Adam called on the curly-haired woman in the first row.

  “Thank you,” Melissa said. “There’s a report that President Lystra of Colombia has brought his son Rigo with him to the US. Now we at the AP are is reporting that the Venezuelans are seeking to extradite Rigo. They want him to face rape charges in their country.”

  A shiver of excitement raced through the room as people picked up their iPhones and started tweeting and emailing the latest breaking news from the AP. Melissa continued, “The US has no extradition treaty with Venezuela. If they should attempt to arrest Rigo here on US soil, how will the US respond?”

  Adam sighed, flipped his briefing book to a tab and read, “The president welcomes all invited leaders with the traveling parties they choose. We will not sit as judge and jury. We do not conduct foreign policy on a he-said-she-said basis. Next question!”

  “That didn’t answer my—” Melissa attempted, sounding upset.

  A forest of hands flew up.

  “Charles?” Adam said, pointing to the front row and silencing Melissa.

  Charles’s face was a mask of weighty thought. “A New York Times report quotes three anonymous White House staffers saying they raised objections with the president and told him not to let Rigo attend the summit, but the president overruled them—”

  Adam cut him off. “I don’t respond to anonymous, nonspecific leaks. You know that.”

  “This is pretty specific,” Charles said as he lifted his iPhone to read directly from it. “One staffer says, quote, ‘The president doesn’t understand the potential for an international crisis because he has the attention span of a fruit fly with ADD.’” Charles put down his iPhone and asked, “Now do you care to comment?”

  Though Charles’s velvety rumble gave his question a bouquet of Depth with hints of Importance and Urgency, it was nothing more than a voice exercise. There was only one possible answer—“No”—which was what Adam said, through tiny puckered lips.

  Looking around the room, Natalie saw that most people were busy on their phones and those who weren’t stared into space with a dead gaze like actors waiting for their cue. Then Adam said, “Next question,” and everyone sprang back to life, hands shooting up, eyes sparkling intently. Natalie put up her hand with the others even though she wasn’t sure what she planned to ask. Adam wouldn’t address the news, and her policy questions were too dull.

  “In the back,” Adam said, looking in her direction.

  Matt said, “Thanks, Adam,” and Natalie bit her lip. She’d thought—

  Adam shook his head. “Not you, Matt.” Pointing directly at Natalie, he said, “Brown hair, purple blouse? You had a question?”

  In her peripheral vision, Natalie could see every camera now turn in her direction. She could feel them zooming in on her face, live on TV from the White House briefing room. Her heart pounded and her tongue felt huge in her mouth.

  “Thank you, Adam,” Natalie heard herself say. She glanced down at the paper with her questions on it but her eyes couldn’t focus. She was too busy thinking, Here’s your shot. Ask something memorable. There was something about live TV and instinct. When she was on air under pressure, instinct took over and usually delivered. Trusting that, Natalie swallowed and hoped the right words would come out of her mouth.

  “Does the First Lady believe that the US should grant Venezuela’s request to extradite Rigo? And, keeping in mind that she is originally from Venezuela, will Mrs. Crusoe speak with the presidents of Venezuela and Colombia about the rape accusation when she attends the summit this evening?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Natalie saw Matt sit up straighter and felt a tinge of pride that she’d surprised him. This was quickly followed by a dose of self-loathing for caring.

  At the podium, Adam seemed to sneer slightly before flipping a tab on his briefing book. He began reading. “I am sorry to inform everyone that the First Lady will be missing tonight’s dinner for the summit. She sends her regrets and best wishes for a successful meeting. But she is home with
a migraine.”

  Natalie felt the blood rush in to her cheeks and heard her heartbeat in her ears. She’d gotten some news. In the high school cafeteria atmosphere of the briefing room, this was like getting asked out by the hottest guy in school and getting an A all in the same day.

  “Honey, I have a headache,” a male voice called out from the back of the briefing room in a bad imitation of Ricky Ricardo, shaking Natalie out of her reverie. The room turned to check the source of the outburst and then broke out in laughter.

  Natalie was not laughing. She was frozen at the sight of Ryan McGreavy, a correspondent from her own network, who was standing in the back like he’d sneaked in after everyone was seated. “¡No esta noche, Presidente!” he singsonged, a big grin on his face, in a shitty falsetto imitation of the First Lady.

  What is Ryan doing here?

  “Excuse me!” Adam Majors snapped, though Natalie could tell he was swallowing a laugh.

  What about this is funny?

  If a Nazi-looking quarterback was your platonic ideal, McGreavy was a 26-year-old corn-fed exemplar of human perfection. The progeny of a former Nevada governor and a casino heiress, he’d parlayed his regional celebrity into an on-air job in Los Angeles local news. There, he’d staked his claim to immortality by going undercover as a contestant on the reality show Eat Me, where he’d gathered hours of hidden camera video. Ryan’s subsequent report, Reality UnReal, showed Eat Me’s producers staging conflicts between the contestants, and aired the same week as the show’s finale, proving a ratings juggernaut for his network.

  Natalie had seen only one scene—the only one she needed to see—in which Ryan downed a plate of raw pig scrotum to win the competition. The resulting viral video won him a job at ATN, where his star had been on the rise all the way up to becoming ATN’s crime and justice correspondent.