I press the last pushpin into the corkboard and step back, flexing my fingers. My skin smells faintly of printer ink and cheap metal, the scent of every all-nighter I’ve pulled since this podcast started as a joke in my notes app.
The board takes up most of the loft’s brick wall now, swallowing the art I kept meaning to hang. At the top, I’ve printed “RIVER’S EDGE HIGH – THE MISSING GIRL” in 72-point bold and underlined it twice. Under that, I’ve arranged stills in rough chronological order: cast promo shots, episode screencaps, blurry convention photos, each date scrawled beneath in black Sharpie.
My portable AC unit rattles in the corner, pushing lukewarm air across the room. It’s no soundstage hum, but the white noise wraps around my brain in a familiar way, like the static before a take.
“Okay,” I say to nobody, because Jazz is still hunched over her laptop on the couch. “Walk me through this.”
I pick up a red string thumbtacked to a season one cast photo—Nora front and center, teenage shoulders squared, smile just shy of cocky. Next to her, the girl from the resurfaced still, younger and sharper, chin tipped up toward the camera. Someone tagged her as Lila Park, and my listeners did the rest.
I stretch the yarn down and anchor it at a printout of the episode list I pulled from an archival TV site. Certain titles are circled: “The River Walk,” “Stairwell Confessions,” “Night at the Mill.” Air dates run in a neat line until three episodes vanish. The missing ones leave a clean, unnerving gap.
I tape a Post-it beside the hole: Episodes unavailable on any platform. Not in syndication bundles. Why?
Behind me, Jazz mutters, “I cannot believe this forum still loads,” and slaps the side of her laptop when the fan whines.
“Are you talking to me or the machine?” I ask.
“Both,” she says. “And the machine listens better.”
I grin without looking away from the board. The paper edges catch the light, turning the whole thing into a collage of matte reflections. Tiny panes of glass, but ones I get to arrange.
At the far right, I’ve started a separate cluster: printouts from entertainment blogs, tiny clipped headlines with Nora’s name bolded. ‘River’s Edge’ Darling Lands Rom-Com Lead. On-Set Tension Rumors Overblown, Says Source. The dates line up suspiciously well with the missing episodes. I drag another strand of red string between them, the cotton taut under my thumb.
“I swear,” I say, “the more I look at this, the more it turns into an outline somebody rewrote mid-season.”
Jazz snorts. “Welcome to television.”
I pin the string, then step even farther back, until my calves bump the coffee table. Cold half-drunk espresso sloshes in a ceramic mug, releasing a bitter, burnt aroma. Next to it, a bowl of candy I told myself was for guests sits with only blue-wrapped pieces left. My brain has apparently decided blue is the least comforting stress sugar.
“No, but look,” I insist. “Promo Lila shows up here—” I point to the cast poster with her smiling between Nora and the male lead. “The early press mentions ‘new breakout star Lila Park.’ Then silence. No formal exit announcement, no ‘pursuing other opportunities’ fluff. Just…nothing, and three episodes no one can stream.”
Jazz’s chair squeaks as she swivels to face me, laptop balanced on her knees. Her screen throws a cool glow over her face, blue light catching on the edge of her nose ring.
“Yeah, and your listeners dragged every fan wiki on the planet,” she says. “I get it, Q. There’s a gap. That doesn’t mean it’s a conspiracy. People quit, contracts end, executives make stupid calls every day.”
“Executives do not usually erase people from cast lists retroactively,” I say. “Someone paid good money to scrub this girl.”
The word “scrub” tastes harsh in my mouth, like steel wool scraping enamel.
I move to the left side of the board, where I’ve pinned printouts of my own tweet thread and the exploding replies. Screenshots show my post with the grainy still—Nora and the unnamed girl on the mill staircase—and the caption: Remember the one who disappeared? Underneath, fan replies spiral into theories, some helpful, some feral.
A new notification buzzes on my phone on the table, rattling against the wood. The screen lights up with the “Second Take” inbox icon.
“That the tip line again?” Jazz asks.
“Yeah.” I scoop it up, thumb unlocking the flood of messages. The smell of my phone case—cheap plastic and coffee—hits my nose. I scroll past subject lines: You’re reading too much into it, My aunt’s friend worked craft services, STOP DRAGGING NORA, old forum thread you need to see.
My pulse kicks on the last one. I open it.
The email is short, no greeting, no sign-off, just a link and a sentence.
Found this on the Wayback Machine. Scroll to page 12. Look for ‘Night shoot at the mill, S1’. – longtime lurker, first time snitch.
“Wayback Machine?” I say. “We’ve got an archivist in the wild.”
“Bless them,” Jazz says. “Send snacks.”
I drop the link into my laptop, the keys cool under my fingers, and coax the page open. The old fan forum loads in all its early-2000s glory: neon text on dark background, pixelated header image of the mill exterior from the show. The browser smells faintly of dust and heat, my laptop’s fan working overtime.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “I was on sites like this in high school.”
“You were a mod,” Jazz corrects her own memory of me. “Don’t downplay your power.”
I scroll, scrolling, scrolling, the frozen thread dates ticking by. 2009, 2010. Fans dissect plot arcs, ship characters, argue about Nora’s hair. On page twelve, a subject line jumps out:
Topic: Night shoot at the mill – anyone hear what happened?
“Found it,” I say. “You want to read or should I?”
Jazz pushes off the couch, bringing her laptop with her to the table, but she nudges mine toward herself.
“You have serial killer board duty,” she says. “I’m on dramatic reading.”
I trade her the laptop for a stack of pushpins and drop into the armchair facing the board. The faux leather sticks to the back of my knees, comfortable and irritating all at once.
Jazz clears her throat, then launches into the text with the cadence she uses for listener voicemails.
“Okay, user ‘riverkid89’ writes: ‘Anyone else hear about last night’s shoot at the mill? My cousin’s friend does lighting and says they had to shut down for hours because somebody got hurt on the stairs. He said there was blood. They’re saying the actress tripped, but security kicked everyone off the catwalk and PR is acting weird. I heard one of the girls was crying so hard they had to call somebody from the network. Anyone know more?’”
The word “blood” hangs over the room, heavier than the dust motes in the lamplight.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, nails leaving crescent imprints in my palms.
“Scroll,” I say.
Jazz does, her eyes flicking left to right.
“Next reply,” she says. “‘Don’t spread rumors. Falls happen, it’s a dark set, relax.’ Then someone else: ‘My dad’s union, they’d never let it stay unsafe.’ Oh, here—another from riverkid. ‘I’m not making it up. They were shooting a big fight at the mill staircase. I heard one of the actresses had to go to the hospital. My cousin says the producers are freaking out because of insurance.’”
Fight at the mill staircase. Hospital. Insurance.
My brain slots the phrases into the board like new index cards.
“Do they name her?” I ask. “Do they say who got hurt?”
Jazz scrolls again, lips pursed.
“Not directly,” she says. “Someone says ‘the Korean girl’ in a gross way, one says ‘the new one.’ A mod jumps in and shuts it down for ‘speculation about actors’ health.’ Thread gets locked.”
She taps the trackpad, and the final locked icon flashes on-screen, a tiny closed padlock in the corner.
The loft feels smaller. The AC’s rattle turns into a sharper buzz in my ears.
“So fans were talking about a bloody night shoot at the mill while the show was still airing,” I say slowly. “Not ten years later on some gossip blog. Right then.”
Jazz nods, eyes still skimming the screen.
“Yeah,” she says. “And the scraps we have now—Lila’s face tagged in that convention photo, the missing episodes, Nora’s interviews about ‘a tough year’—they all line up with this window.”
I stand up, the armchair groaning in protest, and go back to the board. The brick wall feels cooler close up, the rough texture pressing through the paper pinned to it. I grab a black marker and draw a vertical line down the center of the episode list, then write in the margins:
FAN RUMORS: NIGHT SHOOT INJURY @ MILL. THREAD LOCKED.
I draw an arrow from that note to the gap in the episode list, then another from the gap to a printed blog headline about Nora’s brief hiatus for “exhaustion” the following year.
Red string, black ink, white paper. The colors mimic caution tape in my peripheral vision.
“You’re doing that thing with your mouth,” Jazz says behind me.
I pause, marker hovering.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re about to pitch five new episodes,” she says. “And also burn down our existing format.”
I set the marker down on the ledge under the board and turn around. My reflection catches in the loft window behind her: my face pale in the dark glass, divided by the faint grid of the pane.
“We already poked the bear,” I say. “I posted the still. I asked ‘Who is she?’ Our listeners identified Lila. Now we’re looking at archive proof that people knew something bad happened at that mill and the story never surfaced beyond a fan thread that got locked. That’s not just nostalgia content anymore.”
Jazz closes the laptop and rests her hands on it, palms flat. The sticker on the back—OUR FAVES ARE PROBLEMATIC, DRINK WATER—peels at one corner.
“So what are you saying?” she asks. “We pivot from snarky rewatch to true crime?”
My stomach twists at the phrase.
“I’m saying,” I answer, choosing each word, “we already operate in this space where we talk about power and accountability and messy women. And right now, every outlet is ready to crown Nora Hayes as the queen of the prestige comeback. If there’s a girl whose career ended in a mill with blood on the stairs, and nobody told that story, then us doing a jokey episode about Nora’s best hair moments feels…off.”
I don’t say “complicit,” but the word skates behind my teeth.
Jazz watches me. The loft is quiet except for the AC and a distant car horn from the street below.
“So you want to make this—what? A special episode?” she asks. “A bonus?”
My heart kicks up. The board looms behind me like a witness.
“A series,” I say. “A mini-arc inside the season. ‘The Missing Girl.’ Part one: what viewers saw. Part two: the disappearance—missing credits, missing episodes. Part three: this forum thread and any crew we can track down. Maybe more if people start talking.”
Jazz sucks in a breath through her teeth.
“That’s not a casual ask,” she says. “Tracking down crew from a decade ago? Digging into an on-set injury that might be sealed under NDAs? We’re not the Times, Q. We’re two bisexuals with microphones and a Patreon.”
A laugh escapes me, strangled and brief. She isn’t wrong.
“Yeah,” I say. “And sometimes people trust two bisexuals with microphones more than a legacy outlet. We’re not their bosses. We don’t own their footage. We’re fans who actually care what happened to the girl who disappeared.”
I hear my own voice and wince internally. It sounds self-righteous even to me.
Jazz raises an eyebrow.
“And what about Nora?” she asks softly. “You love that woman. You’ve got her movies saved for sick days and breakups.”
I look down at my hands. Printer ink smudges the side of my index finger, a faint gray streak on my skin.
“I do,” I admit. “I made a whole career out of loving her work and asking people to look at the way the industry treats actresses like her. If the story of how she got here includes a girl whose name was erased, ignoring that because it’s inconvenient makes me exactly the kind of media critic I roast.”
The loft air tastes dry, tinged with dust from the exposed beams. I grab the empty mug and take a reflexive sip, forgetting it’s cold; the bitter coffee coats my tongue anyway.
“What if we’re wrong?” Jazz asks quietly. “What if there was an injury, but it wasn’t what fans think? What if the girl doesn’t want this dug up? We drop a series and our listeners swarm whoever they find on social, and we’ve just retraumatized someone for content.”
The worst-case scenarios crack open in my head: names doxxed, abusive DMs, TMZ headlines citing my podcast as their source. Glass screens magnifying harm.
I set the mug down carefully, porcelain clicking against the table.
“We can build in guardrails,” I say. “We can keep names out unless they’re already public. We can focus on systems—safety, NDAs, how easy it is to vanish someone from a show. We can ask listeners not to contact anyone we mention. We can, like, have an ethics section at the top of every episode.”
“An ethics section,” Jazz repeats, deadpan. “You want to make consent discourse part of the cold open?”
“You’re the one who always says parasocial relationships need boundaries,” I remind her. “This is just…adding another layer.”
She leans back, considering. The couch creaks under her weight, springs protesting years of late-night edits and nervous pacing.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Let’s say we do this. Worst case, Nora’s team hates us, the studio blacklists us from screenings, and some lawyer with better moisturizer than both of us combined sends a scary letter.”
“Probably,” I say.
“Best case,” she continues, “we surface something that matters. That girl gets her name back. People think twice before dismissing injuries as ‘part of the job.’ And we piss off precisely the kind of people who deserve to be pissed off.”
A small, reckless spark lights up in my chest.
“There are medium cases, too,” I say. “We screw up, we learn, we correct in public. We model what accountability can look like from our side, not just theirs.”
Jazz squints at me.
“You already named the series in your head, didn’t you?”
“I did it on the board,” I confess, pointing to the printed header. “‘The Missing Girl.’ That’s the working title.”
She stares at the words, lips pressed together.
“Okay,” she says finally. “If we do this, we do it right. No half measures. We read up on trauma reporting guidelines. We talk to an actual journalist. We accept that we’re not the main characters, even if it’s our RSS feed.”
Relief and dread crash into each other in my chest.
“Deal,” I say. “We start with what we can verify: broadcast dates, missing episodes, this fan thread, the convention photo. Then we see who’s willing to talk. No ambushes, no speculative ‘blind items’ pretending to be fact.”
Jazz picks at the edge of her laptop sticker, peeling it up and smoothing it down again.
“You know once we say ‘Part One’ on air, there’s no backing out,” she says. “We’re building anticipation. People will push for answers we might not be able to give.”
The thought makes my throat tighten. I picture my notifications, already a mess, turning into a firestorm over every unsatisfied theory.
“Then we’re clear about limitations,” I say. “We say up front: this isn’t about definitive guilt or innocence. It’s about patterns, missing data, and who gets written out of the story. We stop before we become the thing we critique.”
She studies me for a long beat, then nods once.
“Okay, Hart,” she says. “Pitch it.”
I blink. “What, now?”
“Right now,” she says, standing and stretching her arms over her head. “You know if we wait, you’ll overthink it and talk yourself into a ‘special segment’ instead of committing. I’ll set up the mics. You get your thoughts in order.”
She crosses the room, bare feet padding on the worn rug, and flicks on the ring light by the recording nook. The tiny LED bulbs buzz faintly, adding a higher note to the AC’s drone. She pulls our two microphones closer together on the desk, the metal bodies cool and smooth under her fingers.
I move to my chair, the one I always use, the cushion worn into my shape. I put on my headphones, the familiar pressure hugging my ears, lowering the outside world’s volume by a notch. The smell of old foam and hairspray wraps around me.
My laptop screen reflects my face again, framed by the loft’s dim background and the glowing board behind me. I open a new document and type:
The Missing Girl – Episode One: The Still on the Staircase
My fingers hover above the keyboard. For a second, I think of Nora on my TV growing up, eyes glossy in a way I read as vulnerability. I think of the girl beside her in that grainy mill still, tagged “Lila Park 💕” in a fan’s shaky handwriting.
“We don’t drag anyone who doesn’t want to be found,” I say, mostly to myself.
“We try not to,” Jazz replies from the other mic. “And we own it if we mess up.”
The recorder’s red light blinks, waiting.
My heart thuds, heavy and insistent, a beat that belongs under an opening theme.
I reach forward and click the button.
“This is Quinn Hart,” I say, voice echoing back into my ears. “And tonight on Second Take, I’m starting something I’m not sure I’m ready for, but I think we need.”
The red light turns solid, and I know there’s no way to pin this back onto the board and walk away.