Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Shae
Ipunch in the number at the bottom of the letter and hit Call like it’s muscle memory—like I’ve done this before in another life.
It rings once.
Twice.
“Shae,” a woman says softly. No hello. No surprise. “I was hoping you’d call.”
I close my eyes and lean my hip against the counter. “You sound confident.”
A small laugh. Warm. Measured. “I sound relieved.”
“You knew I would.”
“I knew you’d need to,” she says.
I smile despite myself—tight, unpleasant. “Cute trick. Pretending this is about me.”
“It is about you,” she says. “It’s just not only about you.”
Her voice is pleasant in an expensive way. Educated. Controlled. The kind people trust without thinking about why.
I picture her without trying. That bothers me.
“Where did you get my address?” I ask.
A pause. Deliberate. “Public record.”
I narrow my eyes. Smart. Smarter than I gave her credit for.
“You talk to Dad?”
“I’ve spoken to him,” she says. “Recently. He has regrets, Shae.”
“He regrets everything except the part where he got away with it.” I haven’t spoken to the old man since Pismo.
Haven’t seen him since he prayed behind me in court while I sat on trial for the murder of a federal agent.
My father loves redemption stories—especially the kind where he doesn’t have to apologize.
“He wants to give you a second chance,” she says.
“The only second chances our father believes in are his own.” I push off the counter and walk to the window. “So he gave you everything you wanted? Just handed me over like a peace offering?”
“He didn’t know better,” she says. “He thought I was harmless.”
I snort. “You’re telling me the man who taught us how to lie didn’t recognize one?” I stare out at the garden. “Ironic, considering he didn’t raise me to be strong. He raised me to be quiet. Now he’s singing like a damn bird.”
She hums, thoughtful. “I didn’t tell him I’d already been watching you.”
I stop walking. “Define watching.”
Another soft laugh. “That sounds accusatory.”
“It is.”
“I live nearby, Shae.”
My chest tightens. “Define nearby.”
There’s a smile in her voice now. I can hear it. “Close enough to notice when you turn out the lights. When you wake up. What time you leave for Hearth & Hands every day.”
I don’t answer.
She doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She lets it stretch—lets me sit with the image of her somewhere in this town, collecting details I never offered.
“You’re good,” I say finally. “I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’ll take it anyway.”
I turn away from the window. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to drop into my life like some long-lost moral authority and expect me to—what? Feel something?”
“I don’t expect you to feel anything,” Iris says gently. “I expect you to recognize yourself.”
That word again. Recognition.
I press my nails into my palm until it stings. “You’re assuming a lot.”
“So are you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know what you’ve done,” she says. “And I know what they’ve done to you.”
“They didn’t do anything to me,” I snap. “I did what I did.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “That’s exactly what I mean.”
I laugh, sharp. “You think this is shared trauma? Some sisterly reckoning?”
“I think we were shaped by the same man,” she says. “You by his presence. Me by his absence.” A beat. “I think we responded differently. And I think that scares you.”
I don’t speak.
“You don’t deny it,” she notes.
“I don’t need to.”
“You don’t deny much,” Iris says. “That’s what people like about you. You own it. You don’t flinch.”
“And you?” I ask. “What do people like about you?”
A shorter pause. “They like that I listen.”
I nod slowly. “That tracks.”
“Are you angry with me?” she asks.
I consider it.
“No,” I say. “I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Anger clouds judgment,” she says. “I’d rather you be clearheaded.”
I close my eyes.
This woman is dangerous.
Not because she’s threatening me.
Because she isn’t.
“You said you wanted to get to know me,” I say. “This is a strange way to start.”
“I disagree,” she replies. “It’s the only way you would respect.”
I hate that she’s right.
“Where are you?” I ask.
Another smile I can hear. “A café on Main in Santa Clarita.”
I think of my run-ins with Jesika in Chicago. The river dyed green for St. Patrick’s Day. Jesika. So much blood. It feels like a lifetime ago now.
I don’t ask how she knows I’m close enough for that to be a casual suggestion. I don’t give her the satisfaction.
“You planned this,” I say.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Since the podcast went viral,” she says. “Since I realized the world was going to crown you either way.”
“And you wanted a front-row seat.”
“I wanted context.”
“For what?”
“For deciding whether you were worth protecting.”
That does it.
I laugh, louder. “Protecting me from what?”
“From consequences,” she says simply. “From men who don’t like being exposed. From narratives that change when it’s convenient. From the same system that chewed you up and will do it again if the story turns.”
“And you think you’re my shield.”
“I think I could be.”
I shake my head. “You don’t offer protection for free.”
“No,” she agrees. “I don’t.”
“What do you want?”
She lets the silence do a lap around my throat before she answers.
“To meet you.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Why?”
“Because I don’t trust voices,” Iris says. “I trust behavior.”
“Then you’ve been studying the wrong thing.”
“I don’t think so.”
Silence again. This one hums.
“I’m not introducing you to my life,” I say. “You don’t get access. You don’t get names.”
“I don’t want them,” she says. “I want you.”
That lands harder than it should.
I inhale once—controlled, stupidly careful.
“Tomorrow,” I say before I can stop myself.
She exhales, pleased but not surprised. “Lunch?”
“Public,” I add.
“Of course.”
“One hour.”
“Take two.”
I almost smile.
“You don’t tell anyone,” I say.
“I assumed you wouldn’t either.”
She’s right. I won’t tell Blake. I won’t tell anyone.
“Send me the address,” I say.
“It’s already in your calendar.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen.
A new event.
Tomorrow. Noon.
My jaw tightens. “You’re bold.”
“You’re flattered,” she counters.
I hang up without saying goodbye.
I stand there, phone in hand, pulse steady but wrong. Not racing. Focused.
This isn’t fear.
This is worse.
This is the sensation of being studied by someone who speaks the same private language you do.
I walk into the bedroom and open the closet, staring at my clothes like evidence. Tomorrow I’ll choose carefully. Neutral. Controlled. Nothing that invites interpretation.
For the first time since I walked out of prison, I feel exposed.
Not to the world.
To myself.
I don’t tell Blake. I don’t need his read on this. I don’t need anyone softening it or reframing it.
Tomorrow, I’ll sit across from a woman who claims to share my blood—and my instincts.
Tomorrow, I’ll find out if she’s bluffing.
Or if she’s the first person in my family who sees me clearly and doesn’t look away.
And that?
That might be the most dangerous thing of all.