Page 77 of Stalk Me

“It has to be,” Erik says fiercely. “After everything they’ve done, it has to be.”

David nods, his expression mirroring his brother’s determination. “We have an incredibly strong case. Their lawyers are fighting tooth and nail, but the evidence is overwhelming. We should have a guilty verdict by the end of the week the latest.”

I lean into Erik’s solid presence, drawing strength from his unwavering support.

“Belle wants to speak with you,” David says after a moment. “Privately. I told her it was your choice.”

Erik tenses beside me. “Is that a good idea?”

I consider the question, remembering Belle’s tears on the stand, the raw honesty in her voice when she apologized. “Yes,” I decide. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Are you sure?” Erik asks, concern etched on his features.

I nod, squeezing his hand. “We were both pawns in the same game. Maybe it’s time we compared notes on how to stop playing by their rules.”

David arranges for Belle to meet me in the conference room while he and Erik wait outside. When she enters, she looks even more fragile up close, the dark circles under her eyes a testament to sleepless nights that mirror my own.

We stand in silence for a long moment, the weight of our shared history hanging between us like a living thing.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Belle finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. “What I did to you was unforgivable.”

“They manipulated you,” I reply, surprising myself with the lack of anger in my voice. “Just like they manipulated me.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.” Her hands twist together nervously. “I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I was so scared of going back to those parties, of being sent to Munich. I convinced myself you could handle it, that you were stronger than me.”

“I wasn’t,” I admit. “I was just better at pretending.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Weren’t we all?”

We fall silent again, but it’s different now—less tense, more understanding.

“Your testimony will help put them away,” I tell her. “It matters.”

Belle nods, wiping away a stray tear. “I should’ve come forward sooner. Should’ve trusted you when you tried to warn me about getting too deep into the investigation.”

“We can’t change the past,” I say, the words as much for myself as for her. “We can only move forward.”

She looks at me for a long moment, searching my face for something. “How do you do it? How do you face them day after day without breaking?”

I think about Erik waiting outside, about David’s unwavering commitment to justice, about Professor Austin, who risked everything to help us, about all the unexpected allies who’ve emerged from the shadows.

“I’m not alone anymore,” I tell her simply. “Neither are you.”

And in that moment, standing in the sterile conference room with the girl who was once my enemy, I feel something unexpected unfurl in my chest—not forgiveness exactly, but understanding. We are survivors of the same storm, navigating the same treacherous waters toward something that might, someday, resemble healing.

Breaking the Chain

The steel doors clang shut behind me with a finality that still makes my heart race, even after multiple visits. The prison visiting room is stark—beige walls, fluorescent lighting that casts everyone in a sickly pallor, and tables bolted to the floor. A far cry from the marble floors and crystal chandeliers my mother once considered her natural habitat.

I check my watch—a gift from Erik for our one-year anniversary. It’s a simple timepiece with a leather band, nothing like the diamond-encrusted monstrosities my mother used to drape on me. The second hand ticks steadily, counting down the minutes until my mother appears.

Spring has fully blossomed at Shark Bay, and the scent of the ocean lingers on my clothes despite the sterile prison air. My life has transformed so completely in the past year that sometimes I wake up wondering if it’s all been an elaborate dream. But then Erik will roll over beside me in our shared dorm room, his storm-gray eyes soft with sleep, and I know this freedom is real.

The door on the opposite side of the room buzzes open. My mother enters, escorted by a guard. Prison hasn’t been kind to Eleanor Queen. Her once-perfect blonde hair has lost its luster, growing out to reveal gray roots she can no longer disguise with expensive salon treatments. The orange jumpsuit hangs on her frame; she’s lost weight. But it’s her eyes that have changed the most—the calculating sharpness replaced by something hollow, almost bewildered.

She spots me immediately, her posture straightening in a reflexive attempt at dignity. Even now, even here, appearances matter to her.

“Hello, Mother,” I say as she takes the seat across from me. No hugs, no touching allowed—a rule I’m grateful for.

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