Page 84 of Betray Me
It’s true. Despite the physical exhaustion, my mind is spinning through possibilities and implications, processing everything we’ve learned about The Architect, about Harper’s betrayal, about the network’s true scope. Sleep feels impossible when every shadow could hide a threat.
Max studies my face in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. “You sure?”
“Positive. Get some rest. You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next.”
He doesn’t argue, which tells me he’s as drained as I am. Within minutes, he’s stretched out on the bed furthest from the door, still fully clothed but breathing with the deep rhythm of genuine sleep. Even unconscious, he looks alert somehow—one hand resting near the knife he found in the lodge and put in his boot, muscles ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger.
I settle into the room’s single chair, positioned so I can watch both the window and the door while maintaining a clear view of Max. The silence feels oppressive after hours of walking through forest paths, our footsteps and whispered conversations the only sounds in a world that seemed determined to swallow us whole.
Now, in this grimy motel room with its flickering fluorescent light and water-stained walls, I allow myself a moment to just look at him. To study the sharp line of his jaw, softened slightly by exhaustion. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead, hiding the small scar above his left eyebrow that he got from falling off his bike at age seven. The rise and fall of his chest beneath his wrinkled sweater.
When did Max Brooks become the most beautiful thing in my world?
The thought catches me off guard with its simplicity and its absolute truth. Somewhere between that first night when he helped me escape David Stone’s investigation and this moment watching him sleep in a roadside motel, he’s become essential to my existence in ways I never thought possible. Not just as anally or a lover, but as something more fundamental—the person whose presence makes me feel human instead of just functional.
I could lose him. The knowledge sits like ice in my chest, sharp and undeniable. If The Architect has been orchestrating events as carefully as the evidence suggests, if Max’s feelings for me are somehow manufactured or manipulated, then what feels like the most real thing in my life might dissolve the moment we uncover the truth.
But watching him sleep, seeing the vulnerability he only shows when he thinks no one is looking, I find it impossible to believe that what exists between us is artificial.Real feels different,he said back at the lodge.Real hurts more, costs more, demands more than anything artificial done in Munichever could.
He’s right. What I feel for Max—this desperate, terrifying, all-consuming love—is the most expensive emotion I’ve ever owned. And if someone programmed it into me, they created something far more powerful than they intended.
A soft ping from my phone breaks the silence, and I nearly jump out of my chair. Another email, this one from David Stone’s account—but the timestamp shows it was sent before the attack on his life, probably while I didn’t have internet access to sync my emails.
My hands shake slightly as I open the message. No text, just a series of attachments labeled with timestamps from the past week. Surveillance photos, just as Harper warned me about. But these aren’t the professional shots that came in yesterday’s package. These are grainy, distance shots taken with telephotolenses, the kind of images that suggest the photographer was trying not to be detected.
The first few show Luna and Erik at various locations around Boston—a coffee shop, a bookstore, walking through a park. But it’s the final series that makes my blood run cold. A figure in a dark coat, photographed from behind at multiple locations. The same height and build in each image, always keeping to shadows, always just out of clear focus.
The Architect. It has to be. David managed to get surveillance footage of whoever’s been orchestrating this nightmare from the beginning.
I enlarge each image, looking for any detail that might provide identification. A face, a license plate, some distinguishing feature that could help us track this person down. But whoever took these photos was working with limited equipment in challenging conditions. Most of the images are too dark or too distant to be useful.
Except for one.
The final photograph shows the figure turning slightly, just enough to catch a partial profile. It’s still not clear enough for positive identification, but something about the shape of the head, the way the person carries himself…
James Harper. I’m almost certain it’s Harper.
My computer makes a sound as I receive an email from an unknown sender:Stop looking for what’s already found you.
I delete the message immediately, but the words burn in my memory. Someone knows I’m reviewing David’s surveillancephotos. Someone’s watching our electronic communications even when we think we’re being careful.
But if they can monitor my email activity, why send warnings? Why not just act on the intelligence they’re gathering? Unless…
Unless they want me to know they’re watching. Want me to feel hunted, paranoid, constantly looking over my shoulder. The psychological warfare Harper mentioned, designed to break down my defenses and make me easier to control.
Well, two can play that game.
I set the computer aside and focus on Max’s keys, lying on the nightstand where he left them when we entered the room. They’re an odd collection—house keys, car keys, and several I don’t recognize. There’s also a small LED flashlight attached to the keyring, the kind designed to help you find your way to your front door in the dark.
I pick up the keys, careful not to make noise that might wake Max, and examine them more closely. Some are obviously utilitarian—the Audi key fob, the standard house key with its distinctive grooves. Others are more mysterious. An older-style key that looks like it might open a safety deposit box. A small brass key with numbers etched into the head. And a slim metal card that could be for electronic access to a building or parking garage.
The flashlight is a simple thing, just a tiny LED bulb powered by watch batteries. I click it on, expecting the standard white light.
Instead, it emits a strange blue-white glow.
Curious, I direct the beam toward my hands, and my heart stops.
There, on the inside of my left wrist, invisible to the naked eye but clearly visible under the specialized light, is a tattoo. The same stylized serpent wrapped around a crown that we’ve been seeing everywhere, accompanied by what looks like a series of numbers: 1127.
