Page 9 of Betray Me
I step out of Pemberton Hall into the weak morning sunlight, immediately aware of how conversations stutter and stop as I pass. A group of freshmen actually cross to the other side of the path to avoid me. Their whispers follow like wasps:
“—Gallagher crime syndicate—”
“—helped torture Luna Queen—”
“—can’t believe she’s still here—”
No matter how much time passes, some news doesn’t get old until the entire matter is put to rest. Judging by the size of this particular crime, it could take several more years, if not even an entire decade, for it to blow over.
My phone buzzes. A text from Father’s smuggled prison phone:You know what happens to snitches.
I stop mid-stride, ice flooding my veins. He knows I testified against the Queens a year ago. But that was strategic—saving ourselves by helping to topple our former allies. This threat means something different. Has he discovered that I kept some files from his office instead of burning everything? Does he suspect I’m considering turning state’s evidence against our own family?
I force myself to keep walking, to maintain the perfect posture drilled into me since childhood. The text is a warning, but also a test. Richard Gallagher doesn’t make idle threats.
The dining hall looms ahead, and I steel myself for the gauntlet of entering alone. Where once I held court at the center table with Jessica and our carefully curated inner circle, now I’ll be lucky to find an empty corner where I can eat in relative peace.
The moment I enter, a hush falls over the nearest tables. I grab a coffee and yogurt, ignoring the way the cashier avoids eye contact while taking my meal card. As predicted, my former table is occupied by Jessica and others who’ve swiftly distanced themselves from the Gallagher taint. Jessica glances up, our eyes meeting briefly before she deliberately turns away.
I find a small table by the windows, only to realize too late that I have a perfect view of Luna Queen holding court across the room. The irony is sharp enough to cut—Luna, once the campus pariah, now surrounded by admirers and supporters. Erik Stone sits beside her, his arm protective around her shoulders. Professor Austin is also there, no doubt discussing his upcomingbook, where Luna will write the foreword, exposing our families’ crimes.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Luna: “Need to talk. Urgent. Library, third floor, 2 PM.”
I wonder what’s prompted this direct communication. Although we’ve started our weekly Thursday coffee meetings since her parents received their prison sentence, we’ve been careful to keep the rest of our public interactions as carefully mediated as possible—formal testimonies, scheduled meetings with lawyers present. Something must’ve happened.
The morning passes in a blur of classes, where professors eye me warily and students give me a wide berth. In Advanced European History, Dr. Garrison actually stammers when calling my name for attendance. In Molecular Biology, my lab partner requests a reassignment. By lunch, I’m exhausted from maintaining my composure against the thousand small cuts of social exile.
My mail has been forwarded from the campus post office—they don’t even want me touching the general delivery anymore. I flip through it on my way back to Pemberton: credit card statements, a letter from Mother’s attorney, university administration notices.
At the bottom, an unmarked envelope with no return address.
My hands shake slightly as I open it in the privacy of my room. Inside, a single black rose, perfectly preserved. And a news clipping:Cold Case: Senator’s Daughter Still Missing After Five Years.Janet Wilson’s smiling face stares up at mefrom the yellowed paper. Someone has scrawled across it in red ink:You were there too. Check your memories.
The rose falls from my nerveless fingers. Janet Wilson. The gap in my memory. The photos I found in Father’s safe—Luna, whom I also don’t remember ever being at the same party as me, and me, clearly drugged at a party, posed beside Janet Wilson. The same Janet Wilson who disappeared that night and hasn’t been seen since.
I sink onto my bed, fighting nausea. Someone knows about that night. Someone wants me to remember what happened during those lost hours. But why now? Why break five years of silence?
Unless…
I grab my laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard as I search for recent news about the Wilson case. There—a small item from last week:FBI reopens investigation into Senator’s daughter’s disappearance following new evidence in Queen trafficking trial.
New evidence. The FBI’s expanded investigation into our families’ networks. Someone’s worried about what they might find, worried enough to send warnings. But the phrasing haunts me: “Check your memories.”
As if memories are something you can simply access, like files in a cabinet. As if the chemical fog that blankets that night can be lifted by will alone. I’ve tried to remember, especially since finding those horrible photos. But there’s nothing—just fragments of sensation. Hands holding me down. A woman’s voice, sickeningly sweet. The prick of a needle. Then nothing.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
Silence, then a mechanically distorted voice: “Stop digging, Belle. Some secrets are better left buried.”
“Who is this?”
“A friend. Someone who knows what really happened to Janet Wilson. Someone who knows what you did.”
My blood runs cold. “I didn’t do anything. I can’t even remember—”
“Memory is a funny thing. Sometimes we forget to protect ourselves. Sometimes we’re made to forget. But the body remembers, doesn’t it? The blood under your fingernails remembered.”
