That word.Survivor.Like I narrowly escaped a car crash, not orchestrated it.
A vision flashes—Jesika’s platinum hair stained a sickly green in the Chicago River.
Harper’s hair is the same platinum shade.
Sophie’s, too.
I fake a sniffle. “You’re too kind.”
She giggles. “Don’t cry, you’ll make me cry. And James already thinks I’m emotionally unstable from all this.”
James. The finance-bro fiancé. Five years younger than me, from what I’ve pieced together. Hair like wheat, heart like mayonnaise. He proposed last week—Harper blurted it out before a session like a teenager high on prom-night champagne.
I gave her a heartfelt congratulations.
I fantasized about pushing them both down an elevator shaft.
“He should be proud,” I murmur. “You’ve made something real out of all this noise. You’ve helped change lives, Harper.”
Harper practically squeals. “You think so?”
No, darling. Iknowso. A good sixty percent of the country believes I was framed by a misogynistic justice system now, thanks to your episodes titled things likeBroken But Brave: The Shae Halston Story.
I should be paying you commission.
Instead, I feed her crumbs. “You believed in me when no one else did. I’ll never forget that.”
“Oh, Shae…” she sighs, and I can hear her melting through the line. “I’m just doing what’s right.”
Ah—the guiding light of every little lamb I’ve ever led to slaughter: the belief they’re righteous.
Harper’s biggest flaw isn’t naivety. It’s confidence in her own goodness.
She never judges me. She just listens—calm, open, unbearably decent—like she’s taking inventory instead of notes. No accusations. No gasps. Just that soft, steady gaze that makes me feel measured. Weighed. Found wanting by some invisible moral scale.
It’s worse than being called a monster. At least monsters get honesty.
The thought cuts in, sharp and ugly: mirrors are dangerous things. Sometimes it’s easier to break the glass than admit you don’t like what’s staring back.
“You’ve got a good heart, Harper,” I say. “People like you… you don’t come around often.”
She goes quiet, and when she speaks again her voice is smaller, edged with emotion. “That means a lot. Especially right now. Everything’s been so… intense.”
I tilt my head. “Oh?”
“It’s James. He wants us to take a step back. From the podcast. From you.”
My mouth tightens. “Fromme?”
“Not like that. He just worries I’m… too close to the story. That I’m—what did he say—emotionally enmeshed. And that new podcast from The Watcher dropped…”
I laugh, low and dangerous. “Whoever’s behind that voice changer is spinning bullshit and raking in ad dollars. Besides—no such thing as bad press, right? If they’re watching me this closely, I must be doing something right.”
I let the sweetness sharpen.
“And as for James… if he knew the first thing about journalism, he’d know the best stories are the ones youfeel.The ones that ruin you a little.”
Harper swallows. I hear it.
