It’s remarkable that we’ve never recovered any of her writings. No manifestos, no diary entries, no poetry, only her songs and rare interviews, all carefully calibrated for public consumption.
Who is the private woman and why did she commit such a remarkable crime? We might never know. Sage’s story is one narrated solely by the people around her.
Of course, our lack of access to Sage’s interiority has made her a flawless cipher for other people’s ideas over the years. By being so empty and clean of her own voice, she remains a potent symbol, claimed and contested by various groups to this day. One almost wonders if she did it on purpose. But why would a woman who worked her whole life to become famous, then used her notoriety to make such an extraordinary statement, suddenly fall so damningly silent?
—Frances Vogel, “Our Ladies of the Dark: A History,” PhD dissertation presented to the UCLA Department of History
Chapter 42Juliet, the Model
PRESENT DAY
Juliet staggered through the rubble, struggling to breathe. She’d thought she’d gotten far enough from Knox Aeronautics, thought the bomb would create a small blast, more a show of defiance than anything. But the explosion had rocked her blocks away, and when chunks of building and shattered glass hurtled down like deadly volcanic ash, she screamed and ran alongside everyone else.
Now she was searching the pandemonium, desperate to make sure no one was hurt. Luca hadsworn. Everyone was supposed to be out of the blast radius. It was supposed to be victimless, except for Knox. But the panicked people pushing past one another, scattering like hunted animals—they were victims.
Juliet had done this to them.
On one side of the street, a ring of men crouched around a woman, all of them streaked with a thick film of grit that had once been a building. The woman rocked on the ground, screaming into her hands.
Juliet wove through the swarm of fleeing people and ran to them.
“Is she hurt?” she yelled, heart pounding.
“I think she’s just in shock,” said one of the men. They were dressed in matching tank tops with Scout’s face bedazzled with sequins.
Juliet seized the woman’s dirty arm. “Please tell us if you’re hurt so we can get you to an ER.”
“Jessica,” urged another man. “Talk to us, honey.”
The woman lifted her tearstained face. “I don’t want to die.”
She thought they were under attack. That, at any moment, another building would explode.
“You’re safe,” Juliet assured her. “Nothing else—”
“Cops!” one of them men shouted. “Thank god. Please, over here!”
Out of the clouds of dust, a squad of officers in Kevlar vests surged down the street, led by a blond in a thick vest, her gun raised, eyes combing the streets.
It was Detective Holloway. The same cop who was investigating Scout. Juliet scrambled back, about to take off, when Holloway’s voice cracked the air.
“Juliet Snodgrass—freeze.”
The entire world froze at the command—not just Juliet, but every person running around her. The only things still moving were the particles of dust drifting down like iridescent rain.
Every eye turned to Juliet.
She was caught.
“Put your hands up,” Holloway barked. “Slowly.”
But how did Holloway know Juliet was to blame? The blast had happened only minutes ago.
Juliet raised her hands and looked up at the gathering storm clouds. It felt like this was happening to someone else. She wanted to hold on to that feeling.
Rough hands gripped her shoulders, wrestling off her backpack with such force she staggered forward.
“Hold still,” yelled an officer, while another seized her wrists and yanked them behind her back. “Do you have any weapons?”
