“Thank you.” I let softness touch my voice. “You’ve always been so kind.”
He swallows that line like communion.
After he leaves, I stare at the ceiling—pale blue tile, speckled with rust and hairline cracks like spider veins. It reminds me of the closet ceiling when I was a kid. The one my father locked Sophie and me in after our mom left. I can still smell the dried blood and salty tears. I can still hear Sophie’s quiet sobs, soft as a lullaby.
My parents didn’t fail me.
They curated me.
They showed me what real love looks like—the kind that bites and leaves gaping wounds that never heal. And I learned to weaponize it.
I blink the memory away.
No time for nostalgia. Not when I’m three moves ahead.
I think of Pismo—when I got trapped in the past, when the lines between Sophie and me blurred because grief is ahallucinogen with good PR. I think of how my public defender tried to sell my spiral as a psychotic episode. I didn’t buy it for a second, but mental illness forgives a lot, so I let the jury chew on it.
And this? The girl fight. The bruises. The little gash on my cheek.
All part of the plan.
Public sympathy spikes when you look like prey.
Harper’s probably already outlining an episode around tonight’s “incident,” like I’ve been mauled by a corrupt system. Evelyn—the documentary producer—will salivate over the footage. She loves a gritty visual. Maybe she’ll even send a care package. Last month it was a Chanel lip stain, because she thinks women are plants that perk up when you water them with luxury. She told me I should “feel like a woman again.”
I reach under my cot and pull out the folder I’ve been building: letters, printouts, fan mail. I flip through them like they’re stock options. Each one proof I’m winning. Proof public opinion is shifting. Proof I’m no longerShae Halston, Convicted Killer—I’mShae Halston, Victim of a Broken System.
A teenage girl in Kansas who says she sees herself in me. A woman whose husband “gaslit her” the same way “they” did to me. Harper and Evelyn have done their jobs. They’ve painted me as the Mona Lisa of martyrdom, and all I had to do was sit still and let them varnish me.
From Mia Starr: L.A. influencer to Shae Halston: feminist icon.
People don’t expect predators to be nice.
So I was.
I listened. I nodded. I cried on cue. I asked questions no one had ever asked them before. I remembered birthdays, complimented lipstick shades, held hands during hard moments. I gave Harper the intimacy she craved, gave Evelynthe access she needed, gave the public vulnerability they devour like fast food.
I made myself palatable.
Soon, I’ll be free.
Dean, Kelly, and Isaac fear me.
And Declan? Declan will vouch for me.
He’ll say I was quiet. Polite. A victim of circumstance. He’ll remember my trembling hands and the way I thanked him for his kindness. He won’t remember the look I gave Keisha right before she snapped.
I slide the folder back beneath my cot and climb into bed. Moonlight cuts across the floor in a clean, perfect line. I close my eyes and picture Declan’s face at dawn.
He’ll come.
They always do.
And when he opens that cell door, I’ll tilt my head, smile soft, and tell him how safe he makes me feel.
He’ll eat it up.
Because men like Declan don’t want dangerous women.
