Click. A chair scrapes. A distant door thumps shut. My pulse syncs to the hum in my speakers.
“We built a story that made people feel righteous,” The Watcher says. “But here’s the story that makes no one feel good.”
A splice. Suddenly another room, another acoustic—fluorescents, TVs murmuring through concrete. A jail? A break room?
And then Shae’s laugh. Bright. Careless.
“—I told you they’d buy it,” she says, amusement buzzing. “They always do. You give them a woman in white, a catchphrase they can embroider on tea towels, and something to hate that isn’t themselves.”
A man answers, voice pitched into that low, confident register men use when they want you to feel safe. Declan.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Halston,” he says. “They don’t buy you. They buy their reflection. You’re their shadow painted with a little lipstick.”
She snorts. “Philosophy from a guy who can’t spell it.”
“Watch it.”
“Or what? You’ll file a report?”
He laughs too. It lands in my gut like a coin in a well.
The clip keeps rolling: the two of them talking strategy, timing, the “riot,” the “injury.” Her coaching him on the angle of a phone. His note about who to text first.
“Harper?” Declan asks at one point, and I jolt like he’s said my name in my kitchen. “The podcaster? You sure she’s not going to sniff it out?”
“You’re adorable,” Shae says. “She wants to save me. She won’t let anyone take her miracle away.”
I pause the audio because my throat goes tight and I hate that there’s a sound in it. I catch my reflection in the dark window: mouth set in two sharp lines, the face of a woman who stayed at the party five minutes too long.
I press play.
“—and if they ask about it,” The Watcher narrates over their laughter, “this is where the tape was supposed to end.”
“When will I see you again?” Vulnerability slips into Declan’s voice.
“I try not to think too far into the future,” Shae replies, clipped.
Declan grunts. “So that’s it? You just cut out of here and forget about me?”
A rustle of clothing, then Shae: “Once things calm down, we’ll meet up. I promise. We’ll always be friends.”
“Just friends?”
“Declan, I can’t picture my life without you in it.” She purrs, and I recognize the lie by its perfect packaging. “It’s just—I’m building something here. An empire.”
He says something I can’t make out. Then their laughter again. That’s the part that sticks: how easy it is. How easy.
And then it hits me—maybe Declan was the one sending Shae the threatening texts. A wild card. A useful tool. A man discarded the moment she didn’t need him anymore.
By the time the file ends, there’s a ringing in my ears that doesn’t belong to the track. I stare at the waveform like it owes me an apology.
The Watcher’s final sign-off is only four words: You’re not crazy, Harper. Trust your instincts on this.
My hand trembles. I set the mouse down like it weighs a hundred pounds.
A new text bubbles up from James.
JAMES:How’s my famous fiancée? No spiraling.
