“Not literally, darling,” Shae says, indulgent. “Psychic high school. All girls go there.”
A towel rustles. Water sloshes. Then the soft settling of a body into warmth. The sound is… childlike.
“You and Brianna…” Harper trails off. “Were you—more than friends?”
“Everyone wants girls to be more than friends,” Shae says, amused. “It flatters their imaginations. We were everything and nothing in Carmel. That’s what you can’t package.”
“I just need the truth,” Harper whispers.
“You need a story that behaves,” Shae counters. “I can offer you something better. Permission to leave some edges ragged. An uncut diamond.”
Harper’s breathing deepens. The water makes a quiet shushing sound. Shae’s voice lowers—warm, directive.
“In through your nose,” she says. “Hold for three. Out through your mouth. That’s it.”
I’m motionless on my couch, wine forgotten. It’s hypnotic, the way Shae tutors a panic attack into submission like she’s ironing a dress. She speaks to Harper’s body as if she owns a key to it. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s television I can’t film.
“Tell me one thing you know,” Shae says softly.
Harper swallows. “That I wanted to save you.”
“Tell me another.”
“That… maybe you never needed saving.”
Shae lets the silence stand. Then: “Now you’re ready to hear mine. I could never hurt Brianna.”
“Because you loved her,” Harper says, voice drowsy with the bath—or belief.
“Because I saw her at her cheapest and most expensive, and I loved both.”
Harper laughs, small and fragile. “I actually feel a little better.”
The worst is over. I can hear the relief in her voice.
“Good,” Shae murmurs. “Drink this. You’ll sleep like an angel.”
There’s a pause and the faintest clink—ceramic against tile, maybe a cup set down. But I’ve heard too many staged effects in post to trust my ear. Then Shae’s steps retreat—from steam back into velvet, from bathroom to studio, from intimacy to legacy.
She gathers papers—the tidy sound of a life stacked. “We can finish the rest tomorrow,” she says. “Trim what doesn’t serve. You’re going to make something beautiful out of me, Harper. You always do.”
Harper makes a contented sound from the other room, the kind people make when anesthesia begins to bloom. Blissfully ordinary.
Shae opens the outer door. Before it shuts, she steps close to the mic again, voice aimed at the lens we don’t have.
“Thank you for listening,” she says, and I feel the ridiculous impulse to say you’re welcome. The door clicks.
Silence—cushioned, complete—with the faint hush of bathwater breathing.
I sit back, stunned and a little annoyed at how calmly it ended. No shattered glass. No shouted confession. No dramatic cue I can license cheap from an indie library. Just control. Masterful, quiet control.
“I almost wish something dramatic had happened,” I mutter, aware of how grotesque that is and saying it anyway. Sainthood is dull footage.
I text Blake:She crushed it. Nothing fiery. Calm. Controlled. Just… Shae.
He replies instantly:That’s the brand.
Another text comes in—from the same number that’s been feeding me breadcrumbs for weeks.
