Harper arrives in the middle of it, cheeks flushed from cold and contrition. She runs over and wraps me in an embrace like we’re sisters at a funeral. “Traffic was a nightmare,” she whispers. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re right on time,” I murmur into her hair. “You always are.”
She pulls back, eyes skittering over my face. “Have you… seen the thing?”
“What thing?” I blink innocent.
“The Watcher,” she says, voice barely sound. “They just?—”
“Harper.” I set a hand on her cheek. “I’m not giving them my night.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding too fast, eyes too wet. “Okay.”
Blake swings the camera to her with shark timing. “Harper Lane, folks,” he narrates, “the voice behind the series that taught millions what actual advocacy looks like.”
Harper smiles, brittle and luminous. “We just try to tell the truth,” she says.
Do we.
Flashbulbs pop at the step-and-repeat. I pivot, a white knife turning toward light. Lila practically vibrates as she shepherds donors to me: the orthopedic surgeon with comb-over philanthropy; the real estate couple who name their dogs after wines; the influencer who sells grief candles and has a million followers who apparently trust her nose. Each one saysI cried watching your story.Each one wants me to bless their version of me.
Meanwhile Blake keeps the Live humming: me signing programs, me hugging survivors, me laughing like I’m light. Hearts keep bubbling—proof people still confuse proximity with knowing.
In a corner, a string quartet plays a pop song. Faithful Fizz pops in sequencedpssts.Catering staff wheel a cart withglittering cupcakes, each one staked with a tiny flag that says HEAL in block font. Lila mouthswe did it,tears shimmying on her lashes that somehow don’t fall.
My phone buzzes again—a text from an unknown number with a cheap black-hole icon:
Still playing in white, Shae? Cute. Bleach doesn’t fix blood. What really happened to Declan?
I let the phone sit cold in my hand. Whoever it is, they’ve gotten better at the anonymous thing—VPNs, burners—but people always leave fingerprints in the rhythm of their words.
I slide the phone back into my clutch and smile at a donor who wants a selfie. “Chin down,” I tell her sweetly. “Eyes up. There you go.” We look like forgiveness.
Harper scurries back, face pale. “They’re trending,” she whispers. “The Watcher.The Real Shae Halston.”
“So are we.” I nod toward Blake’s screen, which now resembles a slot machine that only pays hearts. “And we brought better snacks.”
“Shae,” she insists, fingers biting my elbow. “They’re claiming there was a second phone inside the prison. That clips were edited. They’ve got a guard on tape—voice distorted—talking about staged violence. They’re going to say the riot was planned.”
I let my mouth fall open—a perfect micro-gasp. “That’s monstrous,” I say evenly. “To exploit survivors like that for downloads.”
“You should address it,” she urges. “Head on.”
“I will,” I say, and I mean it. Just not here. Not until I choose the stage, the lighting, and whose hands hold the knives.
Blake catches my eye again. I tilt my head—a cue he’s learned: follow.
We slip behind a curtain near catering: industrial sinks, trays of cooling sliders, a harried chef barkinghands!at a line cook. I flatten against the wall and tip my chin up to the lens.
“Hey, it’s me again,” I say to the Live. “We’re hearing noise tonight. A new episode from an anonymous podcast—The Watcher. If you’re listening, please be careful. People make money sowing doubt. Trauma is not entertainment. My story is not a puzzle for strangers to solve on a Tuesday night. It’s my life.”
Comments fire:
— DRAG THEM
— we stand with you
— the watcher is jealous, babe
