“Nah. Blake’s on his way. He’ll handle her. I just need her away from the rough cut,” I say. “We’re not ambulance-chasing our own footage.”
Lila nods, then hesitates. “Shae asked for you,” she says. “FaceTime.”
“She’s not scheduled.”
“She’s been trying to call. Sent me because you weren’t answering.” Lila’s tone lets an eye-roll hover nearby. “She said she had a ‘moment of gratitude’ and thought you’d like to capture it.”
I stare at my monitor. Onscreen, Shae is hugging a donor, that micro-flinch blooming as skin meets skin. I leave it there.
“Put her through,” I say.
Lila taps her phone, flicks it to my iMac. Shae fills the screen, face bare, hair back, white bathrobe making her look like absolution playing dress-up. She smiles like a saint who performs miracles on weekdays.
“Evelyn,” she says, soft like we’re in church. “Do you have a minute for a little grace?”
I take exactly half a second to hate her word choice.
“Always,” I say.
“I heard about The Watcher,” she says, and a sparkler lights behind her eyes. “People vanish all the time. I’m sure they had their reasons.”
For the first time today, my mouth goes dry. “And what are yours?”
She tilts her head. “Gratitude. For you. For Blake. For Harper. For people who refuse to let hate be louder than hope.”
“Hope makes good sound bites,” I say.
“So does fear,” she answers. The robe shifts; she’s moving through some echoing space in her rental. “Don’t let them make you afraid of me, Evelyn. You and I have an understanding.”
“Remind me,” I say. “I collect those.”
“You tell stories,” she says. “I tell you the truth inside the stories.”
“Those aren’t synonyms.”
“They are when the cameras are on,” she says, smiling like a solution. “Dinner tonight? Hearth & Hands is doing a donor thing at six. Lila can put you at the front table. There’s a widowerwho wants to thank you for playing his tears at exactly the right time.”
“I’m editing,” I say.
“You’re always editing,” she answers. “That isn’t a no.”
I don’t give her a yes. “We’ll be in touch,” I say. “We’re dealing with a?—”
“I know,” she says, teeth flashing in the soft light.
The screen darkens. The call ends. Lila studies my face like she’s searching for something that isn’t there.
“She’s… in a mood,” Lila observes.
“She’s in control,” I say. “There’s a difference. And also none.”
Lila slips out as quietly as she came. I stare at the frozen frames—teenage fingers wrapped around a wrist that never stops calculating. I swap angles, give Lila the close-up. Give Shae the edge of frame. Shift power with a keystroke. It’s the closest thing to godhood I’ll ever touch, and it tastes like battery acid.
Blake materializes again twenty minutes later with a tray of coffees and a file that looks deadlier than caffeine. His face tells me Harper cried in a stairwell, and he wants to punch something that isn’t a wall.
“She’s with security, waiting for James to call back,” he says. “Also, I brought you an apology latte.”
“For what?”
