Page 1 of Trained

The studio lights come up as the audience cheers; easy-listening jazz plays over the speakers. Standing at a cocobolo desk, I hold my professional smile and posture until the applause lights turn off and the noise dies down. Behind me, a phony vista of the Manhattan skyline twinkles and glows, watermarked by my name repeating itself in a pattern of diagonal lettering.

“Welcome back, everyone. You know my guest today as the host of Right and Reason with Dirk Shannon, the most viewed podcast across all the major platforms. We’ve been trying to get him on our show since the beginning. Everyone, please welcome Dirk Shannon!”

He walks in from the end of the stage, his pearly white smile aimed at the audience like a cannon. Wearing blue jeans, a white shirt and tan jacket, collar unbuttoned and no tie, he waves with all the good looks and casual confidence of a movie star.

Dirk Shannon is a fucking idiot. If he didn’t have ten million listeners per episode, he’d be holding up a sign in Central Park and scaring away tourists, or maybe ranting on a subway train while commuters pretend not to notice. Now they give guys like him multi-year contracts and diet supplement endorsement deals.

I give him a big hug because I’m Kate Atwood: friendly, attractive and not afraid of a little polite physical contact. Kate Atwood isn’t a prude.

“How are you, Dirk? Thanks for being our guest today,” I say, gesturing for him to sit down on the couch next to my desk.

Our guest, I have to say. Not my guest. They may call it Kate Atwood Live, but this isn’t my show, it’s our show. The audience doesn’t just spectate — it participates.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he says. “Thanks for having me on! You know, a year ago I never thought I’d be on LPN. I gotta be honest, I love your show. It’s great to be here.”

Somewhere, if he hasn’t passed out pounding an entire bottle of Jose Cuervo, my friend John is punching holes in the wall. He never thought Shannon would be on our network either, except maybe as the subject of some viral video full of disinformation.

“Well, it’s good to have you,” I say. “Now, I think we need to start with the elephant in the room: your recent comments regarding the death of Victor Sovereign. It’s been close to a year since he died, but you said in a recent episode that you believe otherwise.”

“That’s right, Kate. I’ve been conducting my own investigation into the matter and what I’ve uncovered has been shocking. I have seen reports from credible sources that Sovereign is living under an assumed identity in Rio de Janeiro.”

You fucking liar. You stupid, lying idiot trash. Victor Sovereign is dead. I shot him, five times. It’s one of many memories that get me through my days.

The irony is that Victor did, in fact, fake his death, but that was before I killed him for real. There is no way Shannon has any evidence that Victor is alive. He has not uncovered anything. If I could, I’d call him out. If I could, I’d drive my thumbs into his eyes and bash his head against the desk until his skull’s softer than a month-old jack-o-lantern.

Does that make me a psychopath? Have I lost my mind? A little, probably. I was glad I killed Victor, but he was trying to murder me… and… me and Ingram. Then I strangled Edward Lonergan to death with my bare hands — but he tried to murder me too. Shannon’s not a killer, he’s just a pathological liar with a good publicist.

If I’m going to murder anyone, it won’t be an idiot like Dirk Shannon. It’ll be a real monster, someone who really deserves it.

Anton Ford.

Jamison Hardt.

Evo Griekin, Merwin Locke, Timo Thor and all the rest.

The Masters.

There are so many names on my list. I know I’ll never kill all of them. If I somehow manage to kill a single one it’ll be the last thing I ever do. Still, I dream of it every night — scary, happy dreams.

This isn’t who I’m supposed to be, but it’s who I have to be.

For him.

In my other dreams, I’m not alone anymore.

Ingram’s with me. We’re together, and we’re happy. I feel the touch of his lips on mine; he holds me tightly in his arms.

Kate, he says. I love you.

He never lets me go.

If only I could stay asleep and live in that world. I miss him so much. Being with him is the only thing that keeps me sane — even though it isn’t real. His memory gives me the strength to persist — to hope that I might survive this hell.

Though, if I never woke, that would be okay. But I do; every day I get up and come to this studio and talk to these people while millions watch and believe.

My next question to Dirk Shannon should be, Where is this evidence?

Or maybe, Who is conducting this investigation?

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