Page 5 of Betray Me
In the photos, she’s alive, smiling vacantly at the camera with the same drugged expression Luna and I wear. There are other pictures—Janet dancing, Janet drinking, Janet being led away by a man whose face is just out of frame.
And then, most disturbing of all, a final photo of just Luna and me, unconscious on that same couch, Janet nowhere to be seen. The timestamp shows it was taken three hours later. On my wrist is a gold bracelet I’ve never seen before. On Luna’s neck, a thin line of what looks like blood.
I stare at the images, trying desperately to remember that night. There’s nothing—just one of the many blank spaces in my memory, the “blackouts” my parents always dismissed as too much champagne, too much excitement. But I know better now. They drugged me, just like they drugged Luna. Just like they drugged Janet Wilson.
What happened that night? What did they make us do?
My stomach lurches, and I barely make it to the wastebasket before vomiting. The evidence in these photographs isn’t just damning for my parents—it implicates me. Us. Makes us look complicit in whatever happened to Janet Wilson.
I can’t destroy these. Not yet. Not until I understand what they mean, what really happened that night.
With shaking hands, I begin separating the files. Most I place in the sleek metal trash can, ready to be burned as instructed. But others—the most damning evidence, including the photographs of Luna, Janet, and me—I slip into my designer tote bag.
It’s a small rebellion, my first real act of defiance against my parents. They’ve controlled my entire life—what I wear, who I befriend, how I speak, who I become. They’ve molded me into the perfect spy, the willing accomplice, the dutiful daughter who never questions, never refuses, never fails.
Until now.
As I light the match that will destroy most of the evidence, I watch the flames consume years of secrets. The heat warms my face, but inside, I’m ice cold. This fire won’t purify me,won’t absolve me of my role in their schemes. But perhaps, just perhaps, it’s the first step toward something like redemption.
Or at least, toward the truth.
I wait until the files are nothing but ash, then carefully sweep the remains into a plastic bag that I’ll dispose of later. The evidence I’ve kept is hidden at the bottom of my bag, beneath textbooks and makeup, beneath the carefully constructed façade of Belle Gallagher, perfect daughter.
As I lock my father’s office behind me, I feel something shift inside me. The photographs burn against my consciousness, demanding answers I’m not sure I want to find. Who was Janet Wilson to us? What happened at that party? Why can’t I remember?
Back in my dorm room, I hide the stolen evidence beneath the loose floorboard under my bed—one of the few hiding places in my room I’ve used for years to keep secrets from my roommates, from the school, from my parents’ spies. The irony isn’t lost on me: I’m using the skills they taught me against them.
I sit on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest as I stare at the patch of floor hiding my secrets. For the first time in my life, I’ve directly disobeyed my father. I’ve kept evidence that could destroy him, destroy us all.
Luna’s words from the testimony echo in my mind: “I’m here because what they did—what they’re still doing—has to stop.”
What they did to her. What they did to me. What they may have done to Janet Wilson.
I’ve spent my life being what my parents made me—the perfect daughter, the willing spy, the keeper of secrets. But as I sit in my empty dorm room, with evidence of unimaginable crimes hidden beneath my feet, I realize I have a choice to make.
I can continue being their weapon, their shield, their accomplice. Or I can be something else. Something they never intended me to become.
I can be the one who brings it all crashing down.
The thought is terrifying. Exhilarating. Impossible.
But as I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling of a room that suddenly feels like both a prison and the first place I’ve ever truly been free, I know my decision is already made. I can’t go back to being who I was. Not after what I’ve seen. Not after what I suspect.
Whatever happened that night with Janet Wilson, whatever gaps exist in my memory, I need to find the truth. Even if it destroys me. Even if it destroys everything.
And for the first time in my life, that destruction doesn’t feel like failure. It feels like justice.
Chapter 3: Perfect Daughter
Before
“Hold still, darling,” Mother says, her manicured fingers pinning another golden curl to my scalp. The hairpin scrapes against my skin, but I don’t flinch. I’ve learned that being still means being good, and being good means Mother’s hands are gentle.
The bathroom mirror reflects a stranger back at me—an eleven-year-old girl drowning in silk and lace, her blonde hair twisted into perfect ringlets that fall past her shoulders. The dress is pale pink, a confection of ruffles and bows that makes me look younger than I am. Mother chose it specifically for tonight’s “gathering,” as she calls it. Special guests, special dress, special girl.
I am special. Mother has been telling me this all day, her voice honeyed with excitement I’ve never heard before.
“Nearly perfect,” she murmurs, stepping back to assess her work. Her reflection hovers behind mine—tall, elegant, flawless in a black cocktail dress that costs more than most people’s cars. We share the same blue eyes, the same delicate features, but hers are sharpened by years of knowing exactly how the world works. Mine are still round with questions I’m not allowed to ask.
