Page 67 of Betray Me
“Thank you.” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady. “I find focusing on my studies helps me… process everything.”
“Trauma has a way of reshaping us.” She observes, her pale eyes studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “The key is ensuring we’re reshaped into something stronger rather than something broken.”
There’s something in her tone that makes me want to step back, but I hold my ground. “I’m working on it. Therapy helps.”
“Of course.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Belle, I want you to know that you have my full support. What your parents did—what they put you through—it’s unforgivable. You showed tremendous courage in testifying against them. And the Queens.”
The words should comfort me, but they feel hollow somehow. Like a performance rather than genuine compassion. “I just told the truth.”
“The truth is often the hardest thing to speak.” She glances at her watch—an expensive piece worth more than most people’s cars. “I should let you get back to your morning routine. But Belle? If you ever need anything—anything at all—my door is always open.”
She walks away before I can respond, her heels clicking against the stone pathway with military precision. I watch her retreat, that strange ring catching the light as she gestures to a groundskeeper, and try to shake the uneasy feeling settling in my chest.
The feeling follows me back to Pemberton Hall, clinging like fog as I climb the stairs to my room. I’m still thinking about Selena’s penetrating stare, about the way she spoke about trauma and reshaping, when I round the corner to find Max leaning against my door.
“There’s my runner,” he says, straightening with that lazy smile that never fails to make my pulse skip. He’s holding two coffee cups, steam rising from the lids in the cool morning air. “Perfect timing.”
The sight of him—rumpled hair, expensive sweater that probably costs more than my monthly therapy sessions, that easy confidence that used to irritate me and now makes me feel safe—instantly improves my mood. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Just a few minutes.” He offers me one of the cups, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sends warmth shooting up my arm. “Though there was a package by your door when I got here. Looked important.”
My blood turns to ice water. “A package?”
He nods toward a manila envelope propped against my doorframe, my name written across it in block letters. No return address. No postmark. Hand-delivered.
“Belle?” Max’s voice carries concern as he studies my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing good ever comes in unmarked packages,” I mutter, fumbling for my key card with suddenly unsteady hands. “Not in our world.”
We enter my room together, the familiar space feeling somehow smaller with the weight of that envelope between us. Max sets his coffee on my desk while I stare at the package like it might explode at any moment.
“Want me to open it?” he offers.
I shake my head. “No. If it’s what I think it is, we should both see it.”
My hands tremble slightly as I break the seal, my mind racing through possibilities. Another threat from the network’s remaining members? Evidence of crimes I’ve forgotten? A message from whoever’s been watching us from the shadows?
The photographs spill out first—glossy surveillance shots that make my stomach lurch. There’s Max and me walking across campus, his arm around my waist. Luna and Erik sharing coffee at that little café on Newbury Street. David Stone entering the federal building, briefcase in hand.
“Fuck,” Max breathes, studying the images. “How long have they been watching us?”
“Long enough.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears as I continue examining the photos. Each one is timestamped, dating back weeks. Whoever took these has been documenting our movements with scientific precision. “Look at the quality. This isn’t some amateur with a phone camera.”
The note underneath is handwritten on expensive stationery, the kind my mother always used for formal correspondence:
The Queens and Gallaghers were merely branches. The root remains. Your parents thought they could protect you by offering substitutes, but their sacrifice only delayed the inevitable. The network is larger than you understand, and certain debts must be paid, especially when mistakes have been made.
My hands shake as I read the words again, each one hitting like a physical blow. Substitutes. What substitutes? What debts? What mistakes?
“Belle.” Max’s voice is tight with something that might be fear. “There’s more.”
He’s right. Beneath the surveillance photos are others—crime scene images that make bile rise in my throat. Janet Wilson’s body, photographed from multiple angles with clinical precision. But it’s the close-up shots that steal my breath.
Carved into her pale skin, just above her heart, is the same symbol I’ve seen tattooed on my parents’ inner circle. The same mark we found on that boat. The same design I just saw on my run… somewhere.
“Jesus Christ,” Max whispers, his face pale as he stares at the images. “They… they marked her.”
Another handwritten note is paper-clipped to the autopsy photos:
