Humans are so much easier to indict.
Blake clears his throat. “Evelyn—Lila wants to stop by.”
“What for?”
“Says she has ‘context.’ Your favorite word.”
I go still. “Did you give her an appointment?”
“She’s in the lobby,” he says.
I exhale. “Send her in.”
Blake slips out. A moment later, Lila enters a little too careful, a little too pleased to be helpful. She holds a manila folder in both hands like a devotional.
“Ms. Cross,” she says. “I brought you those releases you requested for the bake sale minors.” Her voice is pitched to sound reliable and replaceable at the same time.
“You emailed those already,” I remind her.
“These are originals.” She steps forward and sets the folder beside my keyboard—but doesn’t let go. “There were… additions.”
I look at her face before I look at the forms and see what Blake wanted me to see: the desire to be believed, which is cousin to the desire to matter.
“Additions,” I echo.
“Statements.” She finally releases the folder. “Clarifying timelines. There’s been… talk.” Her eyes flick to the paused riot footage with polite nausea. “I wanted to make sure Hearth & Hands isn’t painted as chaotic.”
“It won’t be,” I say. “We make order out of chaos for a living.” I open the folder.
On top are exactly what she promised: three parental releases with fresh ink—and a fourth page stapled to each set.Supplemental Statement.The language reads like it was drafted by someone who binge-watches courtroom shows.
I, [name], saw Ms. Halston arrive at 9:05 a.m.—time-stamped to the minute. Too exact. Too useful.
“Did you write these?” I ask, without heat.
“I assisted,” she says. “People want to be helpful. They don’t always have the words. I gave them the words.”
Her eyes shine. Too eager. I don’t trust it.
“And this is because…?” I prompt.
“Because Shae deserves accuracy,” she answers, simple as a hymn. “And because you deserve to tell it right.”
Right is a flexible word. I keep my voice flat. “We’ll always take accuracy.”
Her gaze drifts to the body-cam angle, to the line where Declan’s POV sways. “Will he be in it? The officer?”
“He’s a perspective,” I say. “Not a character.”
Lila nods like she knows what that means. Maybe she does. She’s better at performance than the others—better than most producers I know, which is a fact I don’t enjoy acknowledging.
“Anything else?” I ask. Meaning: what do you want.
She clears her throat. “I know you’ll get… requests. For access. After the gala in a few weeks.” Her tone stays soft, but the offer is sharp. “It might help if they came through me. Less noise.”
Blake, back in the small living area, leans against the wall pretending not to listen. He makes a faint sound like a laugh swallowed badly. Lila doesn’t look over.
“Noted,” I tell her. “Leave your number on the folder.”
