Page 61 of Betray Me
David Stone appears at my elbow, guiding us toward the witness preparation room with practiced efficiency. “Ignore them,” he says firmly. “They’re vultures feeding on tragedy. What matters is the truth, and you’ve told the truth.”
The truth. Such a simple concept, but in my case, it’s as fractured as everything else. Because even as I’ve testified about my abuse, my exploitation, my systematic transformation into a weapon, questions remain that I can’t answer. Gaps in my memory that might hide the most damning evidence of all.
“David,” I say as we settle into the sterile conference room adjacent to the courtroom. “The security footage you mentioned the other day—the evidence that proves I wasn’t at the Wilson party that night. Can I see it?”
His expression grows careful, the way it does when he’s treading on legally sensitive ground. “Belle, we’ve been over this. The footage clearly shows you at a completely different location during the time frame when Janet Wilson was murdered.”
“But I remember being there.” The words come out smaller than intended. “I have vivid memories of that party, of seeing Janet, of waking up with blood under my fingernails. If I wasn’t there, where did those memories come from?”
Max’s hand finds mine under the table, his fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture of support that grounds me to the present moment. But even his warmth can’t chase away the ice forming in my veins as terrible possibilities take shape.
“Show me the footage,” I insist.
David exchanges a glance with his assistant before pulling out a tablet. The video quality is grainy, black and white security footage from what appears to be a private medical facility. The timestamp reads the same date as Janet Wilson’s disappearance, and there I am—clearly identifiable despite the poor quality—being wheeled into what looks like a treatment room on a gurney.
My blood turns to ice water. “What is this place?”
“A private clinic in Munich,” David says quietly. “One that specializes in experimental memory therapy. According to the records we’ve obtained, you were flown there on your father’s private jet in the middle of the night after Janet Wilson disappeared.”
The room spins slightly as the implications crash over me. Munich. Memory therapy. The blood under my fingernails, the vivid recollections of a party I never attended—it’s all starting to make horrifying sense.
“They implanted false memories,” I whisper, the realization stealing my breath. “They made me believe I killed her.”
“That’s what we believe,” David confirms. “The clinic’s records show a procedure designed to insert traumatic recall into patients’ psychological profiles. It’s highly experimental, mostly illegal, and according to our experts, devastatingly effective for creating psychological control mechanisms.”
My hands begin to shake as the full scope of my parents’ manipulation becomes clear. It wasn’t enough to abuse me, to exploit me, to turn me into their perfect little spy. They had tomake me believe I was capable of murder, had to plant evidence of guilt so deep in my psyche that questioning them would feel like risking exposure of my own monstrous nature.
“The blood?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
“Planted evidence. Probably from the actual crime scene, transferred to your hands while you were unconscious.” David’s voice is clinical, professional, but I can see the horror in his eyes. “Belle, what they did to you—the psychological conditioning, the false memory implantation—it’s torture on a level that most people can’t even comprehend.”
Max’s grip on my hand tightens, his knuckles white with barely controlled rage. “Those fucking monsters,” he breathes. “They didn’t just abuse you physically—they violated your mind, made you carry guilt for their crimes.”
The revelation should bring relief. I’m not a murderer. I didn’t kill Janet Wilson. The blood, the memories, the crushing guilt I’ve carried for years—it’s all manufactured, carefully constructed to keep me under their control.
Instead, I feel hollow. Empty. Like someone has reached inside my chest and scooped out everything that made me who I thought I was.
“Who did kill her?” I ask, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
“We believe it was Dominic Griffiths, acting on Sebastian Queen’s orders,” David replies. “The murder was vengeance for Senator Wilson’s reforms. Your false memories were insurance—ensuring that even if you eventually turned against them,you’d never feel morally superior enough to be an effective witness.”
The clinical explanation hits like hammer blows. Janet Wilson died because her father refused to be intimidated by my parents. I was drugged, flown to Munich, and psychologically tortured to create a control mechanism. A young woman lost her life, and I lost my sanity, all in service of my father’s business interests. The scariest part is that they still haven’t found Dominic.
“I need air,” I manage, standing on unsteady legs.
Max rises with me, his hand gentle on my back as he guides me toward the door. “My cleaning supply closet is just down the hall,” David calls after us. “Take all the time you need.”
The smaller room feels like a sanctuary compared to the courtroom with the white board covered with its damning evidence and clinical revelations. Max closes the door behind us, giving us blessed privacy in the midst of this legal circus.
“Belle,” he says softly, his dark eyes searching my face. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know who I am anymore.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “Everything I thought I knew about myself, about my guilt, about my capacity for violence—it’s all lies. They reached into my head and rewrote my understanding of reality.”
“No,” Max says firmly, moving to cup my face in his hands. “They tried to. But you’re still you, Belle. Still the woman who chose justice over family loyalty, who risked everything to tell the truth. The false memories don’t change that.”
“But what if they do?” The fear pours out of me in a rush. “What if the person I became, the choices I made, the way I treated Luna—what if it was all based on believing I was capable of murder? What if, without that guilt driving me, I’m worse than I thought?”
Max’s thumbs brush away tears I didn’t realize had started falling. “Then we figure it out together. But Belle, I’ve seen who you are when you think no one’s watching. I’ve seen your capacity for kindness, for growth, for choosing right over easy. That’s not manufactured guilt—that’s just you.”
