Page 93 of Betray Me
“The night security guard spotted distress flares,” Mrs. Harpsons replies smoothly, repeating what she already told us. “When the storm intensified and you didn’t come to harbor, I knew someone was in trouble. The waters around the island can be treacherous, especially in weather like this.”
The explanation should satisfy me, but something in her tone triggers the same analytical instincts that once made me such an effective spy. Too practiced, too prepared. Like an answer she’s rehearsed.
But exhaustion wins over suspicion as we disembark onto solid ground for the first time in what feels like years. The island’s familiar scents—pine and salt air, the faint mustiness of ancient stones, the lingering fragrance of the campus gardens—wrap around me like a complicated embrace.
“We’ll get you settled in the dormitories,” Mrs. Harpsons says, leading us up the winding path toward the main campus. “Maintaining the appearance of normal student life will provide the best cover while we figure out our next moves.”
“Cover from what, exactly?” Erik’s question carries the sharp edge of someone who’s spent too many months looking over his shoulder.
Mrs. Harpsons pauses beneath one of the ornate lampposts that line the pathway, her expression grave in the pools of yellow light. “I’ve been investigating The Architect as well,” she says, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “For years, actually. Ever since I discovered the truth about my family’s connection to the network.”
The admission hits like ice water. “Your family?” I echo, even though we already had that suspicion.
“The Harpsons founded this university, Belle. We’ve been its stewards for four generations.” She resumes walking, her pace measured and deliberate. “But somewhere along the way, we became complicit in something monstrous. The recent Architects come from my family line—my grandfather, who perverted everything we built here into a tool for exploitation and control, and my father after him.”
Luna and I exchange glances, the same recognition dawning in both our expressions. We’ve suspected Shark Bay’s connection to the network, but hearing it confirmed by the school’s director feels like watching the last pieces of an impossible puzzle click into place.
“You knew,” I breathe. “All this time, you knew what was happening here.”
“I suspected. Then I discovered. Then I tried to stop it.” Mrs. Harpsons’ voice carries the weight of old guilt and fresh determination. “Belle, when I suggested you take a leave of absence after your parents’ trial, it wasn’t because I wanted you gone. It was because I knew The Architect would eventually come for you, and I hoped distance might provide protection.”
“But we came back anyway.”
“You came back because you’re brave enough to face the truth, even when that truth might destroy you.” She stops at the entrance to Pemberton Hall, the women’s dormitory where Luna and I once shared a room filled with secrets and carefully constructed lies. “If The Architect’s agents see you’ve returnedas students, they’ll assume you’ve given up the investigation. It’s the perfect cover for what we really need to do.”
“Which is?”
“Expose them all. Document their crimes. Build a case so ironclad that even their most protected members can’t escape justice.” Mrs. Harpsons’ smile is sharp enough to cut. “I have resources, Belle. Information, connections, evidence that’s been gathered over decades. But I need help from people who understand how the network operates from the inside.”
The offer hangs between us like a bridge across an impossible chasm. Alliance with the one person on campus who might have the power to protect us, or another trap in an elaborate game we still don’t fully understand.
But looking at Max’s exhausted face, at Luna’s wary determination, at Erik’s protective stance, I realize we’re out of alternatives. Running hasn’t worked. Hiding hasn’t worked. If we’re going to end this nightmare, we need allies with resources and institutional power.
“What do you need from us?” I ask.
“For now? Rest. Recovery. Let me handle the administrative details of your return.” Mrs. Harpsons produces keys from her jacket pocket, the familiar weight that once represented the small freedoms available to students in this gilded cage. “Max and Erik, you’ll be in Max’s old bedroom—third floor, overlooking the courtyard. Belle and Luna, your old room in Pemberton is still available.”
The rooming arrangements make tactical sense, but something twists in my chest at the thought of being separatedfrom Max even by the short distance between dormitories. After months of running together, of sleeping beside him as protection against nightmares and worse, the idea of different buildings feels like abandonment.
“Actually,” I say before I can second-guess myself, “could we make a small adjustment to those arrangements?”
Mrs. Harpsons’ eyebrow arches with curiosity. “Of course.”
“Erik and I can trade places. That way Luna and Erik can be together, and Max and I…” I trail off, realizing how presumptuous I sound. “If that’s okay with everyone.”
The knowing smile that crosses Mrs. Harpsons’ face makes heat crawl up my neck. “Young love,” she murmurs, but nothing is mocking in her tone. “Under the circumstances, I think that can be arranged. Discretion will be important, of course—we can’t have the other students gossiping about special accommodations.”
Max’s hand squeezes mine, his relief evident despite his attempt at nonchalance. “Thanks. It would be… easier if we stayed together.”
“I understand completely.” Mrs. Harpsons distributes the keys with maternal efficiency. “Tomorrow we’ll begin planning in earnest. Tonight, try to remember what it feels like to be normal students instead of fugitives.”
Normal students. The concept feels as foreign as ancient hieroglyphics, but as we climb the familiar stairs to the third floor of Pemberton Hall, I find myself almost believing it might be possible. The corridors haven’t changed—same worn carpet,same portraits of distinguished alumni, same lingering scent of old money and older secrets.
My room was once my sanctuary and my prison, the place where I perfected the art of being Belle Gallagher while hiding the truth about what that truly meant. Now, as Max and I step inside together, it feels like something else entirely.
The room is exactly as I remember—two single beds that can be pushed together, a shared desk beneath tall windows overlooking the campus grounds, built-in wardrobes that once held designer clothes purchased with blood money. Someone has cleaned recently; the surfaces gleam with fresh polish, and the air carries the sharp scent of disinfectant rather than the accumulated mustiness of abandonment.
“The university staff has been maintaining it,” I realize aloud. “They expected us to come back.”
