“He never filed formal testimony.”
“So he told a story at a bar,” Shae concludes. “Bars are full of unsworn poets.”
Harper pulls in a ragged breath.
“Let’s talk about Isaac,” she says, deliberately using the ex’s name. “Your old boyfriend. He’s alive now, but badly injured. The injuries?—”
“Are tragic,” Shae says softly. “Men injure themselves on their fantasies every day.”
“Someone tied him up.”
“Men tie themselves to ideas that won’t love them back,” Shae says. “Next question.”
A beat. Harper’s voice thins. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes,” Shae says. “Do you?”
I stifle a surprised laugh. Shae’s control is miraculous—how she drains a question’s blood and leaves it fainting, how she moves a spotlight with a fingertip. She’s the subject of my documentary, but on days like this, I feel like I’m the subject of hers.
Harper shuffles papers again.
“The anonymous podcaster,” she says, steady pretending to be steady. “The Watcher. They have—claims.”
“Anonymous sources are cowards with hobbies,” Shae replies.
“They broadcast letters,” Harper says. “A diary—yours or someone pretending to be you—detailing revenge. The syntax lines up with your old Instagram captions.”
“Hearsay.”
“They also teased a correctional officer—Declan Ridge?—”
Shae’s laugh rings bell-clear, deliberately careless. “I don’t owe the internet a bibliography of my friendships.”
“There are recorded conversations?—”
“There are always recorded conversations,” Shae says, and her tone turns suddenly… kind. “Harper. Look at me.”
Harper looks—I can hear it—and the room tilts.
“You brought me into your studio to ‘hear my side,’” Shae says. “You already decided it’s the wrong side. You want me to be the story you can save people from. The monster you can manage. It’s how you build your brand. I don’t take it personally.”
Harper’s breath hitches, a rabbit in a snare. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair is a children’s museum,” Shae says. “This is a studio.”
Harper pushes again, even as her footing slides. “Did you ever wish Brianna dead?”
Shae sighs— theatrical enough to be funny if it weren’t also moving. “Every teenager in America wishes every other teenager dead at least once before homeroom. It’s a phase, along with bangs.”
“Did you hurt her in Carmel?” Harper asks too fast. “At the cove? Did you?—”
“Stop,” Shae says, quiet and absolute. “We’re not doing this like you’re a prosecutor and I’m your ratings.”
Harper’s voice shakes now. “You called her that day. Twice.”
“She called me back,” Shae replies. “Three times.”
“Why?”
