Page 2 of Betray Me
Luna nods, her eyes drifting to the window. “Erik says I should stop hoping for closure from them. That I need to find it within myself.”
Erik Stone—the boy who changed everything. The one who loved Luna so fiercely he risked his life for her, who never wavered during the investigation, the trial, and everything thatcame after. I used to envy what they had, that unshakable bond. But therapy with Dr. Specter has helped me start untangling my own trauma, shifting envy into healing.
“Dr. Specter says the same thing,” I admit. “That expecting them to understand what they did to us is like expecting a shark to feel bad about eating fish. It’s just not in their nature.”
Luna’s expression softens at the mention of my psychiatrist, another change from a year ago when she would’ve mocked me for getting help. “How’s therapy going?”
“Good. I’ve been having fewer nightmares.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Luna’s smile fades as she glances at her watch. “Speaking of therapy, I should go. I have therapy at two.”
“Still seeing Dr. Marshall?”
She nods. “Twice a week.”
“I found her to be too… gentle. I needed someone willing to push harder, and I have to say that I’m quite happy with Dr. Specter.”
Something like understanding flashes in Luna’s eyes. “Sometimes the gentle approach isn’t enough to break through the walls we’ve built.”
“Exactly.” The word hangs between us, a small bridge across the chasm of our shared past.
Luna gathers her things, slinging her bag over her shoulder with practiced grace. “Same time next week?”
“I’ll be here.” The routine answer, the one I give every Thursday.
She hesitates, then leans down, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about telling Erik more details about my nightmares. The ones about the parties, about what they made me do.”
The confession catches me off guard. Luna never volunteers personal information, especially not about her trauma. “Are you afraid of how he’ll react?”
“He already knows a lot, and what he doesn’t know, I’m pretty sure even his wildest imagination can’t conjure. That’s just it—I’m afraid of changing how he sees me. Of tainting what we have with the filth of my past.”
I recognize the fear in her eyes, have felt it myself countless times with Nicolas, my ex-boyfriend. “If he loves you—really loves you—nothing you tell him will change that.”
Luna straightens, surprise flickering across her features at my sincerity. “Thanks, Belle.”
As she walks away, I notice how her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts. She’s healing, finding her strength again. We both are, in our own ways.
I watch her through the window as she crosses the street, her dark hair catching the sunlight. And that’s when I see him—the man in the black coat, leaning against a lamppost, pretending to read a newspaper. His gaze follows Luna with a predatory focus, then shifts to me. Our eyes meet through the glass, and a chill races down my spine.
It’s him again. The same man I’ve glimpsed outside my apartment, near campus, in the background of my life for weeks now. Always watching, never approaching. I’ve told myself I’m being paranoid, that the trial made me see threats everywhere. But this is the third time this week, and now he’s not even trying to hide.
I consider calling out to Luna, warning her. But what would I say? That I’m being followed by a mysterious man who may or may not be connected to our parents’ network? That, despite the convictions, the testimonies, the supposed dismantling of the entire operation, I still feel the tentacles of their influence reaching for us?
No. She’s been through enough. We’ve all been through enough. I’ll handle this myself. Find out who he is, what he wants. Protect what little peace we’ve managed to carve out of the wreckage of our lives.
I finish my coffee, leave a generous tip, and gather my things. By the time I exit the café, the man is gone. Vanished like the ghost he might well be—a specter of my guilt, my fear, my inability to fully believe that the nightmare is over.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from an unknown number flashes across the screen:
“Did you tell her about the body?”
My blood turns to ice, my fingers suddenly numb as I stare at the seven words glowing against the black screen. The body. Senator Wilson’s daughter. The girl who disappeared five years ago, whose bloated remains were found in a shallow grave during the investigation. The girl whose blood was under my fingernails the morning after one of my blackouts.
The girl I have no memory of killing, but whose murder has my fingerprints all over it.
I look up, scanning the street frantically, but there’s no sign of the man in the black coat. Just ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, oblivious to the darkness that still swirls around Luna and me, that threatens to pull us back under just when we thought we might be learning to swim.
With trembling fingers, I delete the text, then turn off my phone completely. Panic crawls up my throat, threatening to choke me. I force it down, falling back on years of training.Control yourself. Assess the situation. Identify the threat. Neutralize it.
