Shae
“Ipicked up some herbal tea at a shop in town—want to try it?” I turn to Harper and give the canister a shake. It’s only been a few days since my meeting with Iris, and I’m still reeling from her revelations. When Harper announced she wanted to come for the weekend and do some in-person interviews, I balked but decided getting a little closer to her wouldn’t be the worst thing. She was the driving force behind my release, after all. If proximity is what she wants, proximity is what she gets.
“I can’t,” Harper says. “Allergic to the tannins. My throat will close up in under a minute.” She shakes her head. “Love the smell of chai, though. It’s a shame, really. The universe did me dirty with that one.”
“Oh, darn. Wine then? I have a great cabernet from Napa.” I pull the bottle off the counter, always the perfect host.
“That sounds perfect.” Harper tucks her legs under her and cuddles into the couch cushions.
For a minute, I see Sophie sitting across from me. Sweet, innocent, naïve Sophie. I blink away the last memory of her falling from the pier—plunging to her death in the Pacific’s hungry waves.
I clear my throat, forcing Harper back into focus.
“I never told anyone this,” she continues, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, her voice all breath and tremble. “My mom used to disappear for days. Sometimes I didn’t even know if she was alive. I’d call the bars on the strip to try to track her down. My sister was a few years older, but she moved out when she turned sixteen. Haven’t heard much from her since. I’m not even sure where she’s living now.”
I nod like I care. Tilt my head. Purse my lips. Brush her wrist with my fingers. “That must have been so scary.”
She exhales like I’ve unlocked something tender and sacred. Really, all I did was leave the door cracked long enough for her trauma to pour out like sewage.
I make a mental note: alcoholic mother. Abandonment trauma. Strong need to be needed.
Weapons. All of them. Neatly shelved in the back of my mind like knives waiting to be used.
Harper doesn’t know this, but she’s already mine.
Her curiosity comes wrapped in concern, like a casserole you didn’t ask for but now have to eat. She asks her interview questions gently, sweetly—where did you grow up, how did that feel, wow that must’ve been hard—like she’s petting a bomb and hoping it won’t go off. Empathy my ass. That’s reconnaissance. I smile and answer all of them while my brain notes details, mannerisms, potential inconsistencies. The thought pops in, dark and funny and gone: if curiosity really did kill the cat, someone should’ve warned Harper she’s purring a little too close to the edge.
Then she leans in and snaps a selfie before I can protest. “Just one for the Instagram story! The world loves you, Shae. They want to see you living.”
Living. Cute.
The flash dies, and I catch myself in the screen reflection: soft smile, soft eyes, survivor chic. I look like redemption dressed in vanilla cashmere. You’d never guess that a few nights ago, Blake kissed me in the shower and said, “Let’s just run. Get married. Blow this all up.”
And I almost said yes.
Because unlike Harper—with her airy affirmations and pastel self-help quotes—Blake sees me. Not the curated version. Not the survivor. The monster. And he wants that.
He’s the first person who’s ever held my darkness and said, “More.”
I hear him now in the guest bedroom down the hall, editing footage. His low laugh. The flick of his Zippo as he lights an American Spirit. My comfort soundtrack.
“I’ve been thinking about doing a retreat,” Harper says, drawing me back in. “Like a healing space for victims of trauma. True crime survivors. Costa Rica maybe. Something with breathwork. Hypnotherapy. Psychedelic integration. I just feel like there’s so much more I could be doing, you know?”
Of course she does. Girls like Harper always want to do more—more podcasts, more activism, more social change. They don’t realize it’s just another way to outrun themselves.
“Sounds amazing,” I purr, topping off her glass. “You should do it. You’re such a light, Harper.”
She blushes. “You think?”
I smile. “I know.”
She has no idea I’d smother that light in a heartbeat if it meant getting what I wanted. But for now, I stroke it, feed it, inflate it like a balloon until it’s one pinprick away from bursting.
We clink glasses, and Harper swallows another mouthful of wine. Her limbs go loose, her laughter louder, less filtered. She’s had too much. Now would be the time to do it—choke the life out of her. It’d be so easy. She’s sitting across from a murderer,flirting with danger and sipping cabernet like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’ve convinced her—and the rest of the world—I was framed for a murder I actually committed.
My execution was flawless, literally and figuratively. How dare anyone think otherwise. I suppress a soft chuckle at how easy all of this has been.
“Have you ever thought about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know… infamous?” she asks.
