Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Shae
The text comes while Harper’s standing in my kitchen—barefoot, hair in a messy bun, holding a mug of hot cocoa like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.
The thought of burning her with her own steaming chocolate sparks a flicker of a smile.
I don’t want to hurt Harper. I just want the world to stop handing her things I had to steal.
I know it’s the text because her face changes.
Not in the dramatic, movie way where someone drops their wineglass and it shatters.
It’s subtler. Her mouth tightens. Her eyes go glassy for a millisecond before she blinks it away—like she’s physically shoving the words back inside her head where they can’t touch me.
Her fingers twitch against the mug.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sweet as poisoned honey.
She jams the phone into her pocket. “Yeah. Fine. Just—work stuff.”
Which is hilarious, because Harper’s only “work” right now is planning the wedding of her Pinterest dreams and co-organizing a crime-survivor retreat in Costa Rica with me. Unless The Watcher has joined the bridal party, I doubt her stress is floral-arrangement–related.
But I let her have her lie. I’m generous like that.
She forces a smile. “Anyway, where were we? Oh—yeah, the retreat. I think if we position you as a resilience keynote, it’ll really bring in the donors. You’ve been through so much, and your perspective—”
“My perspective sells,” I cut in.
She laughs nervously and nods. “Yeah.”
Her phone buzzes again. She glances down like it’s a snake about to strike.
“Do you need to get that?” I ask.
“No,” she says quickly. Too quickly.
“Are you okay?” I feign sympathy.
“I… I think I’m being followed.”
Of course she is.
She never checks exits. Never scans faces. Doesn’t she know sweet girls don’t survive?
“What makes you say that?” I smile like I care.
“I just… have the feeling I’m being watched.”
“By who?”
“Take your pick,” she mutters. “Seems like I’ve collected more enemies than friends the last few months.”
I nod, letting her fear hang in the silence between us.
Sometimes I think it would be easier if Harper was gone—not because I hate her.
Hate is easy. This is worse. I feel something, and feelings make me greedy.
When I get attached, it doesn’t mean I love you; it means you’re mine.
And when something feels like a threat, my brain starts drafting clean solutions.
The thought creeps in, quiet and wrong: wanting someone close enough to erase them is just affection, stripped of excuses.
By the time she leaves, she’s still vibrating like a wire about to snap. I watch from the front window as she walks to her rental car, so busy checking over her shoulder she nearly trips on a crack in the driveway.
Blake comes out of the guest room, still shirtless, hair damp from the shower. “What’s with Little Miss Sunshine?”
I smirk. “Someone’s been whispering in her ear.”
“The Watcher?”
“Or a fan,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe Iris. I’m not sure.”
“Think she’ll crack?” he asks.
“Think?” I laugh. “She’s already halfway there. Now I just have to give her a gentle shove.”
* * *
The shove comes two days later. She calls me to meet at Millie’s Diner again.
When I walk in, Harper’s hunched over a manila folder like it’s her last meal. It’s stuffed to bursting—police reports, printouts, probably half the internet’s gossip about me.
I slide into the booth across from her. “Well, this is cozy. Are we doing arts and crafts?”
She ignores the jab. “Shae… why didn’t you tell me about the visitors you had at the facility before you were cleared?”
I tilt my head. “Which visitors?”
Her voice drops. “Brianna’s family.”
“Oh, that.” I wave a hand. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
Her knuckles whiten around the folder. “It is a big deal. You said you’d never met them. But this—” She yanks out a page and jabs her finger at it. “This says they came to see you two months before the judge vacated your sentence.”
I let my smile soften. “Harper, are you okay?”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
“You’re starting to sound paranoid,” I continue gently, like I’m talking to a child convinced there’s a monster under the bed. “You’ve been under a lot of stress with the wedding and the retreat… and James being gone all the time…”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Remind you you’ve got too much on your plate? That you’re letting this obsession with me derail everything you’ve been working for?”
She shoves the folder toward me. “This isn’t obsession. It’s fact. Things don’t add up, Shae. The timelines, the witnesses—”
“They don’t add up because people lie,” I cut in. “And not just to protect themselves. Sometimes they lie because they’re bored. Or because they want attention. Or because they hate someone for being prettier than they are.”
Her voice wavers. “You’re twisting this.”
“Am I?” I lean in, locking onto her gaze. “Or are you letting some anonymous troll in your DMs tell you who I am?”
Her hands tremble now. She blinks hard, like she’s trying to force herself back into the version of reality where I’m the brave, misunderstood survivor she’s been parading around like a prize.
“Maybe we shouldn’t… maybe we need some space,” she says finally. “From all of this.”
I sit back, head tilting. “Space?”
“I think it’s best if… if you don’t come to the wedding. Or the retreat. At least until things settle.”
For a second, I just look at her—the tiny, quivering deer who thinks she’s found her voice. The thought flits through my mind, uninvited: if I disappeared her, everyone would say they saw it coming. That’s the problem.
Then I smile. “Of course. Whatever makes you feel safe.”
I end our tête-à-tête early, already knowing what I have to do.
When I get home, Blake’s in the kitchen making coffee. I drop my purse on the counter and head straight for the liquor cabinet.
“She cut you off?” he guesses without looking up.
I pour a drink. “Wedding and retreat.”
He finally turns. “You gonna let her?”
“Let her?” I take a slow sip. “Blake, she doesn’t get to decide the guest list for her own life. I do.” I grin, savoring the burn down my throat. “What Harper doesn’t know is there isn’t going to be a wedding.”
He grins back. “That’s my girl.”