* * *
Hours bleed. I cut the charity sequence tighter—Shae’s soft smile against the widow’s shaking hands; Lila testifying that Shae is “like a sister.” I raise the music, tug heartstrings like marionette wire.
But the files sit on my desktop. Dean’s confessions. Kelly’s notes. The Watcher’s last plea.
I don’t delete them. I don’t forward them. I let them sit—evidence in a basement box.
At eleven, Harper calls. Her voice is thin, exhausted.
“Evelyn? You’ve… seen the chatter online?”
“No,” I lie.
“There’s a rumor. About a body. About similarities with Carmel.” Her breath catches. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
I almost laugh. Harper begging me for truth.
“Don’t spiral,” I say smoothly. “Focus on the retreat. On James. Leave the noise to me.”
I think of the one person that never testified. My ace in the hole.
“O-okay.” A sniffle. “I trust you.”
I end the call before she can hear the tremor in my own voice.
Blake leans against the wall. “You’re lying to everyone now.”
“That’s the job,” I say.
When he leaves, I openWatcherNotes.txtagain. One line I missed before is highlighted in yellow:
If you don’t expose her, she’ll make you part of her empire. She eats people like us.
My skin prickles. The cursor blinks. Shae’s smile freezes on screen.
And for the first time, I wonder if I’m already on her menu.
Because the story isn’t over.
And Shae Halston always gets the final cut.
Chapter Forty-One
Harper
Iplug in the microphone cord and tap it twice to make sure it’s live. Shae’s scheduled for her final podcast interview in an hour, and just the thought of seeing her makes my stomach twist. I’m not sure I can look her in the face knowing what I know now. I’m still wrestling with how much to reveal—if anything. At least I have a safety net. I just have to get through the next two hours without incident. Then I can sign off on the podcast and commit to the Costa Rican retreat full-time.
And then the file arrives like a dare.
Subject line: LAST LIGHT. No sender name—just a string of numbers that looks like a motel room off a highway you don’t stop on. The attachment is a single audio file, timestamped twenty minutes ago. Thirty-seven minutes long. My hands sweat so much I almost drop the mouse.
James’s ring glints on the desk beside my keys. I think of the last time he kissed my forehead, and said, “Don’t spiral while I’m gone.” I promised I wouldn’t—and then immediately dove headfirst, arms raised.
I double-click.
The track opens on dead room tone—hollow, breathy, like air inside a paper bag. Then The Watcher’s distorted voice, low and unhurried.
“If you’re hearing this, it means they didn’t get to all of it.”
