“Either that,” I say, “or we’re finally interesting enough to build a universe.”
“Cinematic,” he murmurs, pleased.
Across the room, Harper stands alone outside the donor halo, staring at her phone, jaw tight. Blue light makes her look like a woman about to confess on camera—not realizing she already has. She senses me, looks up, and in that brief,unguarded second, I see the question cross her face like a dark bird:What if they’re right about you?
I give her the softest smile I own. The one that saysI forgive you for doubting, little lamb.She nods, guilt flashing before she pockets her phone.
A journalist with a notepad drifts over. “Ms. Halston,” she says primly. “Quick word?”
“Of course,” I say, tilting toward her. “Make it delicious.”
She lifts her pen. “There’s talk tonight. A rival podcast claims your prison riot injuries were staged. That a guard was involved. Crime forums claim the death of Declan Ridge was more than an accident?—”
“So many men were involved,” I say gently. “Does your outlet want to talk about their violence or my survival?”
Her eyes flutter. “We’d like your comment, on the record.”
“My record?” I beam. “The one I no longer have?”
She blinks. I keep going. “Here’s my comment: I wish anonymous cowards were as dedicated to helping survivors as they are to trending. But I’m sure the ad revenue is comforting.”
“So you deny?—”
“I heal,” I cut in, and squeeze her forearm like she’s my distressed niece. “Enjoy the cupcakes.”
I drift on. People part. Some smile with their whole faces; some don’t quite meet my eyes. Lilac and warm sugar collide with the metallic edge of resentment.
Lila returns with a clipboard, giddy and breathless. “We hit our goal,” she says, tears finally jumping. “We did it.”
“You did it,” I correct, patting her cheek. “I’m just the ghost in white.”
She laughs, hiccups a sob. “Harper wants to do a toast with you and Blake for the doc’s socials.”
“Tell her two minutes,” I say. “Bathroom.”
I slip into the small hallway, past framed photos of other events where other women smiled through things. The bathroom is deserted; fluorescent light buzzes like a nervous habit.
I lock a stall, perch on the closed lid, and pull out my phone.
Me:Who is this?
Unknown:Miss me?
Me:Hardly. You’re not that interesting.
Three blinking dots. I imagine a bored opportunist chasing notoriety like a moth to a porch light.
Unknown:The world will soon know what you did to get out. The Watcher already knows.
Me:Then why are you still texting me?
Unknown:Because I like to watch you squirm. Because I was the last thing you saw at 6:58 a.m. every morning when I said “be good,” and you were. Until you weren’t.
So it’s a guard. Or someone pretending to be one, anyway.
Me:I’ve never been good. That was the point.
Unknown:Tell your videographer boyfriend that the more he paints you a saint, the worse this will end for him too.
