Page 69 of Betray Me
“My family’s safe house in Vermont. It’s off-the-grid, cash purchase, no paper trail leading back to us.” He pauses at the door, hand on the knob. “Belle, I know this is terrifying. But we’re not helpless. We have allies, resources, information they don’t know we’ve uncovered.”
I nod, forcing my scattered thoughts into something resembling a plan. “We need to warn Luna and Erik.”
“Already on it.” Max holds up his phone, showing a text thread I didn’t know existed. “Erik’s been suspicious about their security for days. He’s got Luna somewhere safe.”
“And David Stone?”
“Has a team of Federal Marshals protecting him.” Max’s expression is grim but determined. “Belle, we’re going to figure this out. We’re going to find out who’s really behind this network, who’s been pulling the strings all along.”
As we gather essential items—cash, identification, the evidence from my hidden files—I think about the photographs,about Janet Wilson’s body marked with that symbol, about my parents’ desperate attempts to protect me from a fate they couldn’t escape themselves.
The Gallaghers and Queens weren’t the architects of this nightmare. They were just middle management, expendable pieces in a game played by people whose names we don’t even know.
But those people made one crucial mistake: they underestimated what happens when their victims refuse to stay broken.
I look at Max, at the fierce determination in his dark eyes, and feel something that might be hope. “Let’s go hunting.”
The Gothic spires of Shark Bay University fade behind us as we speed toward the mainland, but I can feel them watching even from this distance. Somewhere in those ancient stones, behind the façade of academic excellence and old money tradition, monsters are still operating.
But for the first time since this nightmare began, I’m not running from them.
I’m preparing to hunt them down.
Chapter 25: A Moment of Reprieve
Now
The safe house sits like a forgotten relic among the Vermont mountains, its weathered cedar shingles and darkened windows speaking of years of abandonment. Max’s family retreat—if you can call a fortress disguised as a rustic cabin a retreat—feels more like a tomb than a sanctuary as we carry our hastily packed bags up the gravel drive.
“Home sweet home,” Max mutters, fumbling with an old-fashioned key that looks like it belongs in a museum. The lock turns with a grinding protest that echoes through the surrounding pines.
Inside, the air tastes stale and forgotten. Dust motes dance in the weak afternoon light filtering through grimy windows, and everything—the leather furniture, the stone fireplace, the mounted deer heads watching us with glass eyes—feels frozen in time.
“Jesus,” I breathe, setting my bag down on a side table that immediately releases a small cloud of dust. “When was the last time anyone was here?”
“My father brought me here once when I was twelve. Some bonding trip that lasted exactly three hours before he got a business call, and we flew back to civilization.” Max moves through the space with the confidence of someone revisiting a childhood memory, but there’s tension in his shoulders thatspeaks to the complicated relationship he has with his family’s legacy.
I drift toward the massive stone fireplace, running my fingers along the mantelpiece and coming away with enough dust to write my name. “No electricity?”
“Generator out back, but I need to get it running.” He disappears into what I assume is a kitchen, and I hear the sound of cabinets opening and closing. “There’s bottled water and some canned goods. Enough to last us a few days while we figure out our next move.”
A few days. The reality of our situation crashes over me like ice water. We’re hiding in a cabin that time forgot, running from faceless enemies who’ve been orchestrating our lives from the shadows, with no idea who we can trust or where we can go.
“This is insane,” I say, more to myself than to Max. “Three months ago, I went back to being worried about final exams and whether you’d ask me to the school’s dance. Now we’re fugitives hiding from some shadow organization that thinks I owe them my life.”
“Hey.” Max appears in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up and dust streaking his expensive sweater. “We’re not fugitives. We’re survivors taking control of our own story.”
“Are we?” I sink into one of the leather armchairs, ignoring the way it creaks ominously under my weight. “Because it feels like we’re just running from one hiding place to another, reacting instead of acting.”
He studies my face with that intensity I’ve come to associate with moments when he sees through my carefully maintainedcomposure to the fear underneath. “What would you rather be doing?”
“Fighting back.” The words surprise me with their vehemence. “I’m tired of being afraid, Max. Tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of jumping at shadows. My whole life, I’ve been either a victim or a weapon, and I’m done with both.”
“Good.” He crosses to the window, peering through the grimy glass at the darkening forest beyond. “Because I have some ideas about how to do exactly that.”
But even as he speaks, even as I feel that familiar spark of determination igniting in my chest, the oppressive silence of the cabin presses down on us. No television, no internet, no connection to the outside world. Just us, the dust, and the weight of everything we’ve lost.
“God, it’s quiet here,” I mutter, standing to pace the small living area. “How do people live like this? No stimulation, no distraction, nothing but your own thoughts echoing around inside your head.”
