Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Shae
“Ipicked up some herbal tea at a shop in town—want to try it?” I turn to Harper and give the canister a shake.
It’s only been a few days since my meeting with Iris, and I’m still reeling from her revelations.
When Harper announced she wanted to come for the weekend and do some in-person interviews, I balked but decided getting a little closer to her wouldn’t be the worst thing.
She was the driving force behind my release, after all.
If proximity is what she wants, proximity is what she gets.
“I can’t,” Harper says. “Allergic to the tannins. My throat will close up in under a minute.” She shakes her head. “Love the smell of chai, though. It’s a shame, really. The universe did me dirty with that one.”
“Oh, darn. Wine then? I have a great cabernet from Napa.” I pull the bottle off the counter, always the perfect host.
“That sounds perfect.” Harper tucks her legs under her and cuddles into the couch cushions.
For a minute, I see Sophie sitting across from me. Sweet, innocent, na?ve Sophie. I blink away the last memory of her falling from the pier—plunging to her death in the Pacific’s hungry waves.
I clear my throat, forcing Harper back into focus.
“I never told anyone this,” she continues, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, her voice all breath and tremble.
“My mom used to disappear for days. Sometimes I didn’t even know if she was alive.
I’d call the bars on the strip to try to track her down.
My sister was a few years older, but she moved out when she turned sixteen.
Haven’t heard much from her since. I’m not even sure where she’s living now. ”
I nod like I care. Tilt my head. Purse my lips. Brush her wrist with my fingers. “That must have been so scary.”
She exhales like I’ve unlocked something tender and sacred. Really, all I did was leave the door cracked long enough for her trauma to pour out like sewage.
I make a mental note: alcoholic mother. Abandonment trauma. Strong need to be needed.
Weapons. All of them. Neatly shelved in the back of my mind like knives waiting to be used.
Harper doesn’t know this, but she’s already mine.
Her curiosity comes wrapped in concern, like a casserole you didn’t ask for but now have to eat.
She asks her interview questions gently, sweetly—where did you grow up, how did that feel, wow that must’ve been hard—like she’s petting a bomb and hoping it won’t go off.
Empathy my ass. That’s reconnaissance. I smile and answer all of them while my brain notes details, mannerisms, potential inconsistencies.
The thought pops in, dark and funny and gone: if curiosity really did kill the cat, someone should’ve warned Harper she’s purring a little too close to the edge.
Then she leans in and snaps a selfie before I can protest. “Just one for the Instagram story! The world loves you, Shae. They want to see you living.”
Living. Cute.
The flash dies, and I catch myself in the screen reflection: soft smile, soft eyes, survivor chic. I look like redemption dressed in vanilla cashmere. You’d never guess that a few nights ago, Blake kissed me in the shower and said, “Let’s just run. Get married. Blow this all up.”
And I almost said yes.
Because unlike Harper—with her airy affirmations and pastel self-help quotes—Blake sees me. Not the curated version. Not the survivor. The monster. And he wants that.
He’s the first person who’s ever held my darkness and said, “More.”
I hear him now in the guest bedroom down the hall, editing footage. His low laugh. The flick of his Zippo as he lights an American Spirit. My comfort soundtrack.
“I’ve been thinking about doing a retreat,” Harper says, drawing me back in. “Like a healing space for victims of trauma. True crime survivors. Costa Rica maybe. Something with breathwork. Hypnotherapy. Psychedelic integration. I just feel like there’s so much more I could be doing, you know?”
Of course she does. Girls like Harper always want to do more—more podcasts, more activism, more social change. They don’t realize it’s just another way to outrun themselves.
“Sounds amazing,” I purr, topping off her glass. “You should do it. You’re such a light, Harper.”
She blushes. “You think?”
I smile. “I know.”
She has no idea I’d smother that light in a heartbeat if it meant getting what I wanted. But for now, I stroke it, feed it, inflate it like a balloon until it’s one pinprick away from bursting.
We clink glasses, and Harper swallows another mouthful of wine.
Her limbs go loose, her laughter louder, less filtered.
She’s had too much. Now would be the time to do it—choke the life out of her.
It’d be so easy. She’s sitting across from a murderer, flirting with danger and sipping cabernet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I’ve convinced her—and the rest of the world—I was framed for a murder I actually committed.
My execution was flawless, literally and figuratively. How dare anyone think otherwise. I suppress a soft chuckle at how easy all of this has been.
“Have you ever thought about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know… infamous?” she asks.
“If I were just some woman in a small town?” I tilt my head. “Sure. I think I’d be someone like you. Kind. Trusted. The girl people go to with their secrets.”
She beams, glowing under the spotlight of my fake admiration. She doesn’t know that’s already what I am. People always give me their secrets. I just use them better.
Harper trusts people the way toddlers trust open staircases—no armor, no exits, just wide eyes and good intentions.
I don’t fantasize about toppling queens.
I think about the unguarded ones, the girls no one taught to lock the door.
The thought hums, warm and dangerous: she’d never see it coming.
And there’s something intoxicating about that kind of quiet power—like holding a secret you don’t even have to use.
Harper heads back to her AirBnB in Ojai—long weekend, ‘creative retreat,’ she called it, like the word retreat isn’t already a confession. Tomorrow we record an episode in her sunlit living room, all white walls and canyon views, perfect for the story we’re spinning.
Once she’s gone, Blake leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me.
“She tell you anything useful?” he asks.
I shrug. “Her mom’s a drunk. Her sister’s estranged. She’s a bleeding heart who thinks you can fix trauma with kale smoothies and sound baths.”
He chuckles, pushes off the doorframe, and wraps his arms around my waist. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”
“Obviously.”
“I mean it,” he says, brushing my hair aside and kissing the back of my neck. “You’ve got half the country convinced you’re some broken little dove who just wants peace and quiet out here in the Santa Clarita Valley.”
“And the other half thinks I’m a serial killer,” I smirk, turning in his arms. “It’s kind of perfect.”
He kisses me then, slow and deliberate, like he wants to brand me with his mouth. And I let him. Because Blake is useful. Blake is loyal. And Blake doesn’t flinch when I talk about pain.
When he pulls back, his lips hover near mine. “We could still do it. Run. Say fuck it. I’ll follow you anywhere.”
I tap a finger against his chest. “You’d get bored.”
“No,” he says. “You’d get bored. Without the show. The adoration. The headlines.”
I grin. “You know me so well.”
We fall into bed later, tangled limbs and breathy dirty talk. He pins my wrists above my head and whispers things I can’t repeat in daylight. When we’re done, he lies beside me, heartbeat thudding through his skin like a drum.
“Do you ever think,” he says into the dark, “that Harper might suspect you?”
I roll over, pin him with a look. “Of what?”
He raises a brow. “Take your pick.”
I press my lips to his jaw. “Harper trusts me like a cult leader. She thinks I’m the second coming of misunderstood womanhood.”
“And if she ever changes her mind?”
I trail a finger down his chest. “Then I make sure she never gets the chance to tell anyone.”
Blake laughs, sharp and delighted. “God, I think I love you.”
I smile. “I know.”