“She wants America to forgive the spill.”
Blake rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to hell.”
“I’m bringing a crew.”
He gives me half a smile, then nods at the frame edges. “Lila’s in again.”
Of course she is. Clipboard, pencil, the taut mouth of a woman allergic to imprecision. Lila floats behind the action like a ghost who organizes linen closets. When Shae laughs too hard with a donor, Lila materializes—rescues, redirects, reminds. Useful is never innocent.
I punch in tighter on Shae, pushing Lila out of focus. “We keep her on the edges,” I say.
“Until we need a betrayal,” he says, easy.
“Until we need context,” I correct. I hate that it makes him grin.
On A-cam, Shae leans into an older volunteer and squeezes her shoulder. “Lorraine,” she says softly, and the name hits like she practiced it in the mirror. I check continuity. First introduction was three hours earlier. She remembered. She always remembers. Saints and con artists keep the same lists.
“Play the angle with the window,” I say. “She looks human there.”
He switches to C-cam. The frame drops Shae’s halo two stops and lets the background breathe—a frayed poster about food insecurity, a chipped crucifix someone hung without asking. The cross is crooked.
Blake notices me watching it. “We can straighten it.”
“Leave it,” I say. “Crooked is honest.”
The door opens and Lila wedges in sideways, like the room got narrower. Her voice stays soft, careful not to jar the edit.
“Ms. Cross. Blake.” She extends a pressed folder like it’s communion. “Media requests for the gala. I triaged.”
“You triaged?” I ask. “Are you a nurse now?”
“Only for Shae,” she says, smiling small—steel under sugar. “CNN, Nightline, and a woman from a faith network who wants to pray with her on air.”
“She’ll pray,” Blake says.
“She’ll perform,” I say.
Lila tilts her head at the timeline. “Looks beautiful.” A pause. “She looks beautiful.”
“She looks edited,” I say. “Same thing, to most people.”
Lila doesn’t flinch. “Shae asked if you’d consider including the clip from her talk with the teens. The part about shame.” Her eyes flick to our bin list. “She thinks it might help girls watching at home.”
“Might help,” I repeat. “Or might broaden the demo.”
“Both,” she says evenly.
I open the bin labeled TEEN CIRCLE. Shae sits on the floor with them, jeans instead of skirt, hair loose like she’s a big sister at a sleepover.
Shae: “Shame is the story other people tell about you. Guilt is the story you tell about yourself.”
The girls inhale it like oxygen.
Lila’s eyes flick to me for a verdict.
“It’s good television,” I say.
“It’s true,” she says.
