“As I’ll ever be,” Shae hums.
“Perfect. Let’s start simple,” Harper says. “How are you… really?”
“How am I?” Shae’s smile is audible. “Grateful. Tired. Dangerous in heels.”
“I’ve seen those heels,” Harper says, trying to laugh. “All right. Let’s do this.”
A click. The red light in Harper’s mind turns on. She slips into her opening paragraph—polished, compassionate, mythmaking. How a woman was swallowed by a system and spat out only after the world, guided by Harper’s podcast, demanded a second look. How this woman rebuilt herself in the open: service, love, grace. Harper’s tone is a lullaby for a public with too much conscience and not enough context.
They inhale together.
“Shae, let’s go straight to the part everyone writes me about.” Paper flutters. Harper flips to the right page. “Brianna.”
The air in my living room tightens. Shae doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t do ordinary flinching.
“What about her?” she asks—calm, curious, deadly.
“Your relationship,” Harper says. “You told me, off-mic, that you two?—”
“We had a relationship—more like an acquaintance—that tiptoed into friendship,” Shae murmurs, leaning close enough for the mic to kiss her. “Sometimes I think we were one person cut into two silhouettes, just to see what would happen.”
Harper makes a small sound. She didn’t expect poetry; she expected a defense. I can hear her recalibrating.
“I pulled a timeline,” Harper says, tapping papers. “You were in Carmel before Brianna’s accident. You were seeing patients under Kelly Fraser’s license. You?—”
“Kelly was my therapist,” Shae says gently. “I was trying on the shape of healed in Carmel. You, of all people, understand the need to… imagine wellness until it fits.”
“You used her identity,” Harper presses. “You practiced her voice.”
“You mean I did an impression,” Shae says. “Which you love when I do it on your show.”
Harper tries to keep the smile out of her voice. “There’s footage—grainy, yes—of you walking the beach with Brianna the night she?—”
“Grainy footage is a Rorschach,” Shae says. “People see what they need to. If your listeners want me to be a shadow, I’ll be their shadow.”
Harper holds her breath for two beats. “Were you with her that night?”
“Yes,” Shae says cleanly. “And also: not the way your question suggests.”
“Explain.”
“I walked her home. We talked about her husband, about being married without losing yourself. She cried a little. I cried a little. It was boring. Real life usually is.”
“You didn’t see her take her last breath?”
“Harper.” Shae tilts her head—I can hear it. “Leave the noir lighting to Netflix. You’re better with podcasts.”
Harper barrels forward, as if speed will carry her over thin ice. “You hated her.”
“I loved her,” Shae says—no pause, no air. “That’s the problem with language. Hate and love are fickle.”
“She bullied you in high school,” Harper says. “You said so yourself.”
“Girls are cruel.”
Harper’s paper-hand flicks to another page. “A fisherman reported a woman arguing with Brianna near the cove.”
“Reported to whom?” Shae asks. “His dog?”
