“That’s what I told him,” she says. “And besides—we’re about to break everything wide open with this Netflix project. It’s all happening, Shae. You’ll be free. I know it.”
I picture her: cross-legged in her tiny Chicago apartment, legal pads everywhere, coffee gone cold. James in a hotel room across the country on a work trip. I’ve noticed how often she’s alone—how safe she assumes that is.
I have Harper wrapped around my pinky.
James is a complication.
One I’ll handle later.
“How’s house hunting going?” I ask.
She brightens. “We saw this little place in Hyde Park. Big backyard, lots of light. James wants kids right away, but I’m so busy with the podcast… settling in one place feels… difficult.”
“How lovely,” I murmur, pretending to care that she’s uprooted her life to spend days at a time with me here in California for interviews. “You’ll be an incredible mother.”
“Oh God. Do you think so?”
No. You devote your life to interviews with murderers and psychopaths. But I say, “Absolutely.”
Harper exhales like she’s savoring it. “You know, sometimes I feel guilty. Planning this… happy life, while you’re in there.”
Ah, my favorite flavor of pity: guilt-drenched.
“Don’t feel guilty for being loved,” I say softly. “Just don’t forget who helped you find your voice.”
The silence stretches—just long enough for the idea to root.
“I won’t,” Harper whispers.
Damn right, you won’t.
The timer buzzes. My hour’s up. I press my palm to the glass, mock-somber. “Same time next week?”
“Of course,” she breathes.
I hang up the receiver, my smile turning into something sharper.
As the guard calls me back to the block, I replay the conversation—Harper’s tone, her pauses, her little slip about James trying to pull her away.
He’s starting to wonder.
Good.
Let him.
The more doubt Harper faces, the tighter she’ll cling to me. To the story we’ve built together. And when she finally breaks—when the guilt swallows her whole—I’ll be the only one who can absolve her.
After all, I’m the survivor.
And she’s just the storyteller too naïve to realize she’s written herself into a tragedy.
One that doesn’t end with a wedding and a white picket fence.
But a body.
Maybe two.
Chapter Four
