Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Shae
My name is trending again.
#FreeShaeHalston is plastered across TikTok like it’s a new religion, and I’m the second coming.
Fans are posting old photos, freeze frames from the docuseries, dramatic audio clips from Harper’s latest episode.
Even a pathetic local news outlet ran a special on me last night—like I’m some sainted prisoner who just needs a hug and a competent lawyer to cure her of being convicted for murder.
Cute.
Netflix inked the deal this morning. Evelyn strutted in smug and glowing like a bride on her wedding day, whispering that season two was officially greenlit.
“The prison fight sealed it. We want to dig deeper,” she purred, red lipstick snagging on the word deeper like it’s foreplay. “Into the injustice, the broken system, your story.”
My story. Right.
She’s been trailing me through this hellhole of bleached walls and sagging mattresses for six months now with Blake—her hipster cinematographer who only speaks to adjust lighting. Evelyn’s lens adores me. I’ve lost some weight, and my cheekbones look criminal in 4K.
She believes in a redemption arc. That’s what she said after I told her about Kelly.
“I mean, you were just a child,” Evelyn whispered, eyes wet. “To be abandoned by your mother? That’s primal trauma. No wonder you struggled.”
Struggled.
That word always makes me want to vomit.
People struggle with bills. With addiction. With grief.
I survived.
And now I thrive.
It’s 7:00 a.m. when Declan swings by for count. His keys jangle like an old movie sound effect. He smells like cinnamon gum and Irish Spring—an unforgivable combination—but he’s handsome enough that half the block still flicks their hair behind their ears when he passes.
Pathetic.
“You good?” he asks, voice low.
I yawn theatrically and sit up. “As good as one can be in orange polyester and under constant surveillance.”
He chuckles and leans in the doorway like he’s posing for a soap opera still. “Thought you’d be happier today. All that attention. You’re even more famous now.”
I stretch like a cat, arching until my spine pops. “Fame is fleeting. I’m iconic.”
He smiles, shakes his head, biting back whatever comment wants to escape. He doesn’t get it. None of them do.
“You listen to Harper’s latest episode?” I ask, sliding off the bed. “She calls me a survivor.”
“You are,” he says, too quick.
I tilt my head and let the silence sit there, fat and deliberate, like I’m deciding whether to correct him.
I don’t.
Let him defend me. Men like Declan like feeling needed. It gives them purpose in their otherwise dull lives.
Instead, I say, “You know what I’ve learned from this little experiment in character assassination they call a justice system?”
Declan raises a brow, amused. “Enlighten me.”
“That the world wants a victim or a villain, and the only difference is how you tell the story.” I lean in. “I tell stories very well.”
He huffs a laugh. “You don’t say.”
I smile, sweet as church wine. “Do you ever think about what comes next?”
“Next?”
“For me.”
His gaze slips away for a beat—just long enough to betray him. “I think about it all the time.”
Good boy.
He thinks he’s in love with me. Or maybe he’s just lonely. Love and loneliness wear the same face if you squint.
He opens the cell. “Come on. You’ve got recording time with Harper.”
I follow him down the hall, past women who’ve stopped pretending not to stare. I feel their eyes tracking me—jealous, curious, hungry.
Everyone wants to be remembered.
I’m just the one who figured out how.
* * *
“Hey, Shae,” Harper chirps over the phone line. “You ready to dive into Chapter Four today?”
Chapter Four. The one where I “reveal” how I was gaslit, manipulated, and betrayed by the very systems meant to protect me.
It’s a good episode.
“Absolutely,” I purr. “Let’s begin.”
I launch into my script: how Taylor tripped and fell onto the loaded syringe of paralytic that stopped his heart.
How a pack of misogynist investigators decided I was guilty and made sure the evidence agreed.
Then Kelly—how I was only trying to care for her.
How I didn’t know she was my mother until it was too late.
How she manufactured lies about my cruelty out of some warped need for revenge.
I let my voice tremble. Not too much. Just enough.
“I was desperate,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to lose her again.”
Harper is crying. I can hear her sniff, hear the tissue. “You’re so brave for talking about this.”
Brave. Like a soldier. Like a cancer survivor.
God, she’s stupid. But she’s useful.
Harper thinks empathy is armor. It’s actually a neon target. People orbit her like she’s a warm lamp in a dark room—no effort, no angles, no blood sacrifice required. I had to earn attention the hard way: sharp elbows, softer lies, a little skin, a little pain.
She just exists and people line up to protect her like it’s their civic duty.
I tell myself it doesn’t bother me. I tell myself I’m evolved.
But the thought slips in anyway, neat and brutal: if the world insists on handing out love for free, maybe it needs a reminder of the cost.
When I finish, Harper signs off with her usual tagline—“Because everyone deserves to be heard.”
Declan is waiting outside the door.
“You’re good,” he says.
“I’m better than good.” I brush past him with a smile that makes him think I feel something I don’t.
Back in my cell, I peel back my blanket to reveal the letters I’ve been drafting for weeks: anonymous tips, notes to advocacy groups, carefully timed leaks—each one designed to tilt the world a few degrees in my favor.
And then there’s the plan. The real plan.
I open my notebook and stare at the timeline: the riot, the attack, the injury, the photos, the hero arc.
“I can do more good out there than in here,” I say aloud, testing the sound of it.
Declan will be my inside man. He just doesn’t know it yet.
People trust kindness. They’re starving for it. A smile, a soft tone, a hand held a second too long, and suddenly you’re a saint.
Or a monster in disguise.
Either way, they worship you.
And when season two of The Influencer Murders drops…they’ll all be watching.
Exactly as planned.