Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Evelyn
The cursor blinks. So does my phone.
One text from Blake. No words—just a link.
I click.
Local paper: BODY FOUND IN CASTAIC LAKE. WEIGHTED BARREL. NO TEETH, NO FINGERS.
The headline hisses like a fuse. My throat tastes like iron. I know before I read the second paragraph it’s bad for optics. Barrel. Weighted. Deliberate. Someone meant forever, and forever floated up anyway.
I scroll. Northern Los Angeles County. A fisherman’s hook snagging metal. The medical examiner says ID is “complicated.”
Blake’s timing is surgical. He knew I’d be in the bay alone—caffeine and Shae’s grin, my only companions. He knew this would slice straight through the spell.
I start to type: Do we know if it’s connected?
Another ping.
An email. Anonymous sender. Subject line: for your documentary.
I hover, then open.
Attachments. PDFs. A text file. Transcripts. One line in the body: Posthumous from The Watcher? He wanted this heard. Now it’s yours.
I drag the files onto my desktop, heartbeat punching at my collar. The first document opens.
TRANSCRIPT: Conversation with Dean (ex-husband of Shae Halston).
He isn’t the blustering caricature Shae paints. His words ache with something like shame. He talks about her meds—skipped doses, rages sharpening after. Therapy with Kelly: Shae confessing violence in metaphors, then acting them out. Door locked at night. Nights he didn’t think he’d wake up.
I scroll. More.
Sessions. Actual transcripts. Kelly’s notes from decades ago: Shae in her twenties, detailing fantasies of control. Watching light die in people’s eyes. Practicing lies in the mirror. Fixating on revenge against “girls who laughed too loud.”
It’s damning—neat, time-stamped, typed like evidence wants to be believed.
The final file is a plain text document: WatcherNotes.txt.
She fooled you. She fooled everyone. Here’s the nail: She told Kelly while they were in Pismo that Brianna’s disappearance was the first time she felt in control.
It’s circumstantial, but relevant. Find the CCTV from Carmel—they exist. She went out as Kelly, came back as Shae.
Masks within masks. Don’t let her bury this.
I sit back. On the monitor, Shae hugs a widower at Hearth Lila testifying that Shae is “like a sister.” I raise the music, tug heartstrings like marionette wire.
But the files sit on my desktop. Dean’s confessions. Kelly’s notes. The Watcher’s last plea.
I don’t delete them. I don’t forward them. I let them sit—evidence in a basement box.
At eleven, Harper calls. Her voice is thin, exhausted.
“Evelyn? You’ve… seen the chatter online?”
“No,” I lie.
“There’s a rumor. About a body. About similarities with Carmel.” Her breath catches. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
I almost laugh. Harper begging me for truth.
“Don’t spiral,” I say smoothly. “Focus on the retreat. On James. Leave the noise to me.”
I think of the one person that never testified. My ace in the hole.
“O-okay.” A sniffle. “I trust you.”
I end the call before she can hear the tremor in my own voice.
Blake leans against the wall. “You’re lying to everyone now.”
“That’s the job,” I say.
When he leaves, I open WatcherNotes.txt again. One line I missed before is highlighted in yellow:
If you don’t expose her, she’ll make you part of her empire. She eats people like us.
My skin prickles. The cursor blinks. Shae’s smile freezes on screen.
And for the first time, I wonder if I’m already on her menu.
Because the story isn’t over.
And Shae Halston always gets the final cut.