Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Shae
The week following the gala tastes like money.
It’s in the air—metallic, sharp—as if the whole town bled quarters into the streets and I’m the one with a magnet.
Emails ping. My legal-fund thermometer graphic climbs like a fever.
Hearth we do respect.”
“Cute,” I say. “Which host?”
She lowers her voice like we’re discussing a covert unit. “Cole Bishop.”
Blake whistles through his teeth. “Network.”
“Primetime network,” Lila confirms. “Eight-minute A block and couch carryover if you slay.” Papers rustle. “Wardrobe wants to coordinate with their set. White is still working. Pearls. Minimal sparkle.”
“Angelic,” I say. “Sanitized.”
“America-safe,” she says. “Also—your new lawyer emailed. He loved your ‘justice is a team sport’ line. Can you say it again tonight?”
“I can embroider it on a pillow,” I tell her. “Any landmines?”
Her pause is microscopic. “Harper posted a quote about ‘truth being a moving target,’ then deleted it. She texted me asking if you’re okay.”
“Tell Harper I’m incandescent,” I say. “And busy.”
“Copy.” Lila exhales. “I’ll be at your place in twenty to pull looks. Blake, are you shooting BTS?”
“Sunrise to tears,” he says.
Lila laughs. “Perfect.”
She hangs up. Blake sets his mug down, crosses to me, and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear like we’re in a perfume commercial.
“Tonight,” he says, “you’ll own the room.”
“I already own it,” I tell him. “Tonight, I invoice.”
* * *
The convent house kitchen turns into a war room. Lila arrives with groceries and a plan; Blake arrives with batteries and a lens. Evelyn arrives with a headset (imagined), clipboard (real), smile (documentary-ready).
“Let’s rehearse the arc,” she says, already unzipping dresses. “Open with gratitude. Pivot to broken systems, not broken people—important distinction. Touch the charity, touch the lawyer, point to the fund link they’ll put on-screen. No naming The Watcher. Don’t dignify rumors.”
“I never dignify,” I say, stepping out of my robe. She helps me slide into a simple white sheath. The fabric has weight. It says: I have nothing to hide—and the body to prove it.
“Spin,” she orders. I do. She nods. “Hair down. Soft waves. Try the single-strand pearls.”
Blake films from the living-room archway as if I might bolt.
“Say the line,” he prompts.
“Which one?” I ask.
“‘I’m just grateful someone believed in me.’”
I give him a sideways smile. The line plays saccharine if you tilt it wrong. I tilt it right.
“I’m just grateful someone believed in me,” I say into the hallway mirror, then add, “—and I hope to spend whatever time I have left returning the favor.”
Lila points a pen at me. “That. Keep that. That’s money.”
She pins the jacket hem like a seamstress paid in headlines. I catch her eye in the mirror.
“You like this, don’t you?” I ask.
“Like what?” she says, feigning confusion.
“Being close to heat.” I turn. “You’re smart. You keep pretending you don’t know you’re smart. Why?”
She blushes, then smiles with half her mouth. “Because television likes women who act surprised when they’re competent.”
“Welcome to Santa Clarita,” I say with a little laugh. “It’s quiet out here. Quiet makes people honest. Or it makes them break. Either way, the place is helpful.”
The three of us play our parts all afternoon. Lila filters calls. Blake choreographs shots and demands “one more” of everything. I field softballs on Midday Now and give the paper a quote about community. Donations tick up like a slot machine that finally found its rhythm.
When the car arrives for the studio, the driver holds a little sign with my name. He looks starstruck. It feeds something feral in me.
An hour later we pull up behind the theater—stage door, headset woman, clipboard woman.
“Ms. Halston, we’re so honored,” she gushes, ushering us down a narrow corridor that smells like paint and nerves.
The walls are lined with old posters—comedians, bands, politicians pretending not to be politicians.
I recognize all of them. None will recognize me afterward unless I’m in white.
Green Room B has a tray of macarons and hydrangeas so fresh they still sweat. Cole Bishop’s producer runs through beats, eyes skipping over me as if reading me in braille. “He’ll welcome you warmly, but he will ask about the riot. It’s his job. Just… tell the truth.”
“Always,” I say sweetly.
“Hair and makeup are ready if you’d like a touch.”
“Touch me everywhere,” I tell her, and she laughs—relaxing exactly how I want her to.
The makeup artist is a man with silver hair and the gentle hands of a priest. “You already look like redemption,” he murmurs, patting glow onto my cheekbones. “We just add light where the world forgot to put it.”
“The world’s forgetful,” I say.
“It is,” he agrees. “Close your eyes.”
I close them. Let strangers line my lashes. Let them paint me into the woman the audience needs.
When I open them, Blake’s in the doorway, camera on his shoulder.
“Two minutes,” he says, and I swear his eyes shine.
“Now or never,” Lila says, pressing a tissue into my palm. “For show tears.”
“I can cry on command,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says. “This is backup. Weather balloon. If the wind shifts.”
She squeezes my fingers. It occurs to me that if I told Lila to walk into the river, she’d ask me which depth I preferred.
They lead me into the wings. Cole’s monologue laughter rolls through the theater like surf. It breaks, then he pivots into sincerity without breaking eye contact with the camera. He’s good—slick as a politician.
“—and now,” Cole says, “a woman whose story captivated the country. Please welcome Shae Halston.”
Applause detonates. Light collapses into a tunnel, and I walk through it.
Cole meets me center stage, shakes my hand with both of his, and guides me to the couch like I might be fragile—not a blade tucked in a purse. His eyes are kind. I can’t decide if that’s better or worse.
“Shae,” he says when we sit, “thank you for being here.”
“Thank you for having me,” I say. “It means a lot.”
The first questions are throwaways—How are you sleeping?
How did it feel to walk free? What went through your mind at the gala?
I give him everything and nothing, curated like a museum of almosts.
I let my voice fray on certain words—alone, scared, grateful—then stitch itself back together.
The audience murmurs when I talk about the charity.
They clap when I say the legal fund is helping other women appeal their cases too.
They oooh when I mention Harper as “one of the first to believe in me.” America purrs.
Then Cole tilts his head—signal for the pivot to “hard-hitting.”
“Some people have… concerns,” he says. “About the prison riot. About aspects of your case that still feel unresolved. What do you say to them?”
Lila’s tissue sits under my right thigh, unnecessary.
“I say I understand,” I answer, meeting his gaze.
“I say skepticism keeps us honest. I say institutions can be messy—and so can people.” I let a breath catch.
“But I also say—if your sister called you from a cage and said she was in danger, would you demand she submit a bibliography… or would you go get her?”
A beat. Then the audience applauds again, fuller this time—like they just got permission to forgive themselves for every shortcut they’ve ever taken to righteousness.
Cole nods, solemn. “You also credit the people around you for the second chance.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “My team. The lawyers. Harper. Evelyn and her crew for documenting the truth when it was easier to look away.” I flick a glance to camera two. “And strangers. People who sent five dollars and a message that said, ‘We see you.’”
I give them the line, soft as butter. “I’m just grateful someone believed in me.”
A tear actually happens—no tissue necessary. One single, camera-friendly tear that burns on the way down.
Cole gestures. “You said at the gala that ‘justice is a team sport.’”
“I meant it,” I say. “And I hope to spend whatever time I have left returning the favor.”
We go to break on a close-up of me not blinking.
Backstage during the ad block, Cole leans in. Off-mic, voice low. “For what it’s worth, you’re very compelling.”
“For what it’s worth,” I murmur back, “I know.”