“Don’t carve it on my tombstone,” I say, swiveling back to the console. “Show me the analytics from last night’s gala livestream.”
He fumbles his laptop open, pulls up charts that look like EKGs. “Peak audience: 178K. Top comments were variations on ‘queen’ and ‘free her forever.’ There were haters, but the mods sat on them like a fat cat on a Roomba.”
“Nice,” I say dryly.
His phone buzzes again. He glances, flinches. “Harper. Again.”
“Put her on speaker,” I say.
He hesitates, then taps. “You’re on with me and Evelyn.”
“What if it’s my fault?” she blurts. “What if we poked the wrong nest? What if?—”
“Stop thewhat if,” I say.
She sucks in a breath. “I got… other things. Old jail audio. Declan’s name is all over it. Half of them are her. She’s… laughing. Like—” Harper gropes. “Like a person who knows how to play the game.”
“Send them encrypted,” I say. “Not to corporate. To me.”
“I did.” A beat. “Evelyn—my phone factory-reset itself at 3 a.m. I swear I didn’t touch it. James says I probably sat on it?—”
Blake snorts despite himself. “We’ll sweep your accounts,” he says. “Use the burner we gave you. Don’t open links from strangers or fans.”
Harper’s silence has a shape. “Do you ever feel like she’s… here when she’s not? Like she’s in the footage. Like she knows where we’re looking.”
“She knows where everyone’s looking,” I say. “That’s her talent.”
“She sent me a link at 5 a.m. to a breathwork video,” Harper says tightly. “Caption: ‘For your anxiety. Proud of you.’”
“Sweet,” Blake says.
“Predatory,” I say.
“Both,” Harper whispers.
We hold the silence until we hear her steady herself. “Okay. I’m recording at five with the widower from the grocery store case. I’ll call after.”
“Don’t walk anywhere alone,” Blake says. “No alleys. No parking decks.”
A beat that feels like gratitude. “Copy.” The line clicks dead.
I watch the screen, where Shae pushes a cart of donated bread like a benevolent storm. “We don’t pivot,” I say. “We prepare.”
“For what?”
“Everything,” I say.
He exhales. “Jesus.”
“He’s not cleared for this production.”
We go back to work because work is how I handle the anxiety of the unknown. I open the bin labeled GALA AFTERS—optimists and champagne and wealthy people congratulating themselves at a morally acceptable volume. Shae in white, pearls like a noose. I trim the sequence where she hugs a teary donor. There’s a micro-flinch in Shae’s shoulders right before contact—so small you’d miss it if you weren’t paid to notice tells. I cut around it to spare the myth, then stop myself and cut it back in.
“Leave it,” I decide. “Human fear is honest. Honest buys you one more lie.”
Blake drags his chair closer, elbows on knees. “You think she did something.”
“I think she plans three moves ahead,” I say. “If The Watcher got too close, she already had a contingency named Fate.”
