Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Shae
The courtroom smells like stale air-conditioning and quiet desperation. My attorney, Olivia Spencer—the pride of the LA County Innocence Project—smooths her blazer with the smug calm of a woman who knows the cameras are rolling.
“Shae Halston,” Judge Marten intones, like he’s practiced the rhythm of my name in his bathroom mirror. “This court has reviewed the new evidence presented on your behalf—”
New evidence meaning Harper’s breathy monologues about a botched investigation, Evelyn’s glossy edits that frame Taylor’s death as an “accident,” Jesika’s “unfortunate” plunge into the Chicago River, and—my personal favorite—a charming iPhone clip of me bloodied in the corner of my cell.
Eyes wide. Voice shaking. A survivor in orange.
I sliced my cheek just deep enough to scar and make the crowd gasp. It worked like a spell.
“—and finds there is reasonable doubt regarding your conviction. Your sentence is hereby vacated. You are free to go.”
Olivia squeezes my hand like we’ve just crossed a finish line. I turn to her, trembling, wide-eyed—perfectly paced.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Outside, the cameras click and flash like they’ve been starved for something shiny. I give them exactly what they came for.
My smile is toothpaste-commercial perfect—white, radiant, humble.
Like I’m not planning to devour the world with it.
Within an hour, my release is processed. My few personal items are dumped into a cheap tote, and I’m walking out to Harper, waiting by her little Subaru with her hands clasped like she’s about to meet her prom date instead of the woman whose public image she resurrected from the ashes.
Her trench coat flutters. Her curls bounce. She looks younger than she is.
Innocent.
Or at least… easy.
“You’re free,” she breathes, pulling me into a hug that lasts two seconds too long.
I pat her back like I’m grateful. Like I haven’t been orchestrating this moment for one-thousand-and-eighty days from a concrete slab beside a plastic toilet and a blanket too thin to qualify as mercy.
Harper smiles like nothing bad has ever happened to her, and something slow and hot stirs in my chest.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Declan near the gate—jaw tight, hands balled, uniform too neat, eyes too full of whatever he’ll never say out loud. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod.
But I know that look.
He wants to come with me.
He can’t.
But he will. Eventually. They always do.
Declan thinks he saw the real me. What he saw was the version I needed him to see. He wanted to save me. That was his first mistake. Men who need to be heroes always end up villains.
Blake’s lens glints in the sunlight as we head toward the waiting SUV. Evelyn sits in the passenger seat behind dark sunglasses, her expression artfully neutral. She gives me a small nod—measured, professional.
But the way her gaze lingers isn’t neutrality.
It’s awe.
I slide into the back seat. The door shuts with a luxurious thunk. For the first time in nearly three years, no bars clang. No lock bites.
I’m free.
And the world believes I deserve it.
Harper chatters from the front about schedules, interviews, how Netflix wants to fly us to New York for a press blitz.
“They think you’d be perfect on Late Night with Sloan,” she says, twisting around to beam at me. “You’ll be the face of second chances.”
Second chances. I almost laugh. Like I ever needed the first one.
“I’m honored,” I say, voice low and syrupy. “None of this would’ve happened without you, Harper.”
She blushes. Actually blushes.
It’s like watching a lamb prance into a slaughterhouse.
“I just told your truth,” she says.
No, sweetheart.
You told my story.
I look out the window as the prison shrinks in the rearview, its bland beige walls dissolving into horizon. My scar itches beneath the makeup Evelyn insisted on—“for continuity,” she said, like cameras don’t love a mark of survival.
I keep it anyway. It’s a symbol now. A signature. Eventually it’ll fade, but for now it stays.
The world saw that video and wept for me. Cried over their cappuccinos and slammed “share” until their thumbs ached. A viral martyr. A modern miracle.
All I had to do was bleed pretty.
I sink into the leather, fingers combing through my hair, letting the hum of victory settle under my skin. Not loud. Not chest-thumping.
Quieter than that.
More dangerous.
This is the moment the predator exhales after the trap snaps shut.
Harper’s voice trembles as she keeps talking. “If you need time to decompress, just say the word. This is going to be a huge adjustment.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” I murmur. “That means a lot.”
She beams like I handed her a crown.
Evelyn shifts, speaking for the first time. “Just don’t forget who the audience is, Shae. They want the woman they fell in love with on-screen. The redemption. The warrior.”
“I never forget my audience,” I say.
It isn’t a lie.
I think of the letter I mailed to the Innocence Project under a pseudonym, complete with fabricated timelines and “witness statements.” Declan’s phone slipping under the cell bars the night before the riot.
The toothbrush I sharpened. The blood I let drip with theatrical precision.
Harper sanding down every jagged edge, painting me as a misunderstood survivor instead of what I am.
An apex predator with good lighting.
“Where are we headed?” I ask—more for Harper than because I care.
“Evelyn got us a place outside Santa Clarita,” Harper says. “Quiet. Secluded. Good for your first few days. Off-the-record filming.”
“How thoughtful,” I purr, then turn toward the window so they can’t see the smile spreading.
I’ve been thinking about where I land next—somewhere that worships reinvention. Southern California is built for it. You can be anyone here as long as you look convincing.
A deer darts across the road and Harper squeals, slamming the brakes. I jolt forward, catch myself. She apologizes in a rush, voice high, hands shaking.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Really.”
But I’m already cataloging it—the tremor, the shallow breath, the flush of embarrassment.
Weakness.
I’ll use it later.
We leave the freeway and climb into the dry hills behind Santa Clarita.
The road narrows, the cell signal stutters, and the air turns sharp with sage and dust. Then the gate appears: rusted iron, a cracked stone sign half swallowed by bougainvillea—ST. MARY’S ORDER OF CARMELITES.
Past it, the grounds are overgrown but beautiful: fountains gone green, roses gone feral, statues of saints with weather-worn faces watching from the shade.
And above everything, the bell tower—silent, stately, ominous.
“This is it,” Evelyn says, as we come to a stop on the gravel drive. I should be unnerved by how holy it feels. I’m not. I feel… chosen.
Harper glances back at me with wide, hopeful eyes. “Home sweet home?”
I nod.
But what I’m really thinking?
Now you’re mine.