You told my story.
I look out the window as the prison shrinks in the rearview, its bland beige walls dissolving into horizon. My scar itches beneath the makeup Evelyn insisted on—“for continuity,” she said, like cameras don’t love a mark of survival.
I keep it anyway. It’s a symbol now. A signature. Eventually it’ll fade, but for now it stays.
The world saw that video and wept for me. Cried over their cappuccinos and slammed “share” until their thumbs ached. A viral martyr. A modern miracle.
All I had to do was bleed pretty.
I sink into the leather, fingers combing through my hair, letting the hum of victory settle under my skin. Not loud. Not chest-thumping.
Quieter than that.
More dangerous.
This is the moment the predator exhales after the trap snaps shut.
Harper’s voice trembles as she keeps talking. “If you need time to decompress, just say the word. This is going to be a huge adjustment.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” I murmur. “That means a lot.”
She beams like I handed her a crown.
Evelyn shifts, speaking for the first time. “Just don’t forget who the audience is, Shae. They want the woman they fell in love with on-screen. The redemption. The warrior.”
“I never forget my audience,” I say.
It isn’t a lie.
I think of the letter I mailed to the Innocence Project under a pseudonym, complete with fabricated timelines and “witness statements.” Declan’s phone slipping under the cell bars the night before the riot. The toothbrush I sharpened. The blood I let drip with theatrical precision. Harper sanding down every jagged edge, painting me as a misunderstood survivor instead of what I am.
An apex predator with good lighting.
“Where are we headed?” I ask—more for Harper than because I care.
“Evelyn got us a place outside Santa Clarita,” Harper says. “Quiet. Secluded. Good for your first few days. Off-the-record filming.”
“How thoughtful,” I purr, then turn toward the window so they can’t see the smile spreading.
I’ve been thinking about where I land next—somewhere that worships reinvention. Southern California is built for it. You can be anyone here as long as you look convincing.
A deer darts across the road and Harper squeals, slamming the brakes. I jolt forward, catch myself. She apologizes in a rush, voice high, hands shaking.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Really.”
But I’m already cataloging it—the tremor, the shallow breath, the flush of embarrassment.
Weakness.
I’ll use it later.
We leave the freeway and climb into the dry hills behind Santa Clarita. The road narrows, the cell signal stutters, and the air turns sharp with sage and dust. Then the gate appears: rusted iron, a cracked stone sign half swallowed by bougainvillea—ST. MARY’S ORDER OF CARMELITES. Past it, the grounds are overgrown but beautiful: fountains gone green, roses gone feral, statues of saints with weather-worn faces watching from the shade. And above everything, the bell tower—silent, stately, ominous.
“This is it,” Evelyn says, as we come to a stop on the gravel drive. I should be unnerved by how holy it feels. I’m not. I feel… chosen.
Harper glances back at me with wide, hopeful eyes. “Home sweet home?”
I nod.
