The question echoes.What are we doing?Cutting sins into miracles. Selling rot as redemption. Turning a sociopath into a hashtag.
I minimize the transcript, pull up the cut again. Shae hands a blanket to a woman at the shelter—mascara streaked, grief raw enough to stain. Shae’s expression is angelic. I remember the moment: the woman whispered something about losing her child. Shae patted her arm, eyes damp with crocodile tears.
On the raw audio, five seconds later, Shae asked if we had enough coverage of her left side.
I cut that part out, of course.
My phone buzzes. Unknown caller ID. I know before I answer.
“Evelyn,” Shae purrs, velvet on a blade. “How’s my favorite magician? Still making me look good?”
I swallow. “Always.”
She chuckles. “I don’t doubt it. Listen—I wanted to check. Blake hasn’t been… difficult, has he? He has a flair for dramatics.”
My gaze flicks to Blake, still pacing, glaring like I’m betraying the planet. “He’s fine,” I say.
“Good.” A pause. “You’re the only one I trust with my story, Evelyn. Don’t let me down.”
The line clicks dead.
Blake’s lip curls. “You hear that? She’s got you on a leash.”
“She has the world on a leash,” I snap. “I’m just holding the camera.”
“No,” he says. “You’re holding the match.”
I pull the transcript window back up—Dean’s words, Kelly’s notes. Shae’s violence documented, undeniable.
“You really think she did it?” Blake asks. “Tracked down The Watcher and shut him up? You think she’s capable?”
“I don’t care what she’s capable of,” I say, eyes on the screen. “I care about optics. If it’s not relevant to the cut, I don’t think about it.”
He gives a harsh little laugh. “You’re just as ruthless as she is.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I have a purpose.”
“Is that the only difference?” he asks. “You don’t think she’s driven by purpose?”
“Not beyond vengeance and vindication,” I say. “Shae’s ethos is that fame is fleeting and revenge is forever. That’s what makes her fascinating. That’s why we have jobs.”
The words hang.
“What if we use it later?” I whisper.
Blake blinks. “Later?”
“Think about it.” My voice drops, smooth with the poison of logic. “We let her burn brighter. Higher. Make her a fucking idol. Then—when she’s at the top—” I slam my hand on the desk. “We cut the rope. We release everything. Cleaner. Cinematic.”
He shakes his head like I’m speaking a language he refuses to learn. “That’s not journalism. That’s complicity.”
“This isn’t journalism,” I hiss. “It’s Netflix.”
Silence. The kind that makes the air taste metallic.
Finally Blake says, “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Maybe.” I reopen the timeline. “But the story will live forever.”
