Page 96 of Betray Me
Max leans forward, his attention focused with laser intensity. “What changed?”
“Money. Power. The same corruption that destroys most noble intentions.” Mrs. Harpsons’ smile carries decades of bitter understanding. “By the 1920s, the university was struggling financially. My great-grandfather made arrangements with certain… benefactors. Wealthy families who needed a discreet place to educate their more troublesome children.”
The euphemism hangs in the air like incense. Troublesome children. I think of my own arrival here, of Luna’s placement after her “difficulties” at her previous school. We weren’t students—we were problems requiring specialized management.
“At first, it seemed reasonable,” Mrs. Harpsons continues, opening the first file and spreading photographs across the table. “Provide structure for wayward heirs, help them develop the social skills necessary for their future roles in society. But gradually, the mission began to shift. Instead of education, the focus became control. Instead of development, it became exploitation.”
The photographs show generations of students—beautiful young people in pristine uniforms identical to ours, their smiles perfect and empty. But there’s something in their eyes, a familiar hollowness that speaks to careful breaking and meticulous reconstruction.
“The network you’ve been fighting—The Architect’s organization—they didn’t create this system,” Mrs. Harpsons says quietly. “They inherited it. Refined it. Turned what was supposed to be a beacon of learning into a training ground for victims and victimizers alike.”
Luna’s coffee cup rattles against its saucer as she sets it down with trembling hands. “You’ve known all along. About what they were doing to students, about the parties, about everything our families put us through.”
“I’ve suspected for years. Known for certain for… less time than I care to admit.” Mrs. Harpsons’ expression grows pained, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen from authority figures in my life. “The evidence was always carefully hidden, the witnesses either silenced or made complicit. And frankly, I was terrified of what challenging such a powerful network might mean for the students still in their care.”
“So you did nothing,” Erik says, his voice carrying the edge of someone who’s witnessed too much institutional cowardice.
“I did everything I could within the constraints of my position without putting more children at risk,” Mrs. Harpsons replies firmly. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that Luna and Belle were placed as roommates? That they were positioned where they might find strength in each other rather thanremaining isolated? Do you think federal investigators have been granted access to this island through random chance?”
The revelation hits like lightning splitting the sky. “You’ve been helping them. The FBI, the prosecutors—”
“I’ve been providing what assistance I could without exposing students to additional danger or alerting the network to my activities.” She opens another file, revealing correspondence with David Stone’s office dating back over a year. “But until your parents’ arrests provided the leverage needed to move against the network directly, my options were severely limited. One wrong move, one suspicious action, and they would have simply transferred their operations elsewhere while eliminating any witnesses.”
Max studies the documents with the sharp focus that’s made him such an invaluable ally. “This is why you tried to convince Belle to take a leave of absence. You knew they were planning something.”
“I hoped distance might provide protection. Obviously, I underestimated both the network’s reach and Belle’s determination to see this through.” Mrs. Harpsons’ pale eyes find mine across the table. “I’m sorry, Belle. I should’ve found a way to do more to keep you safe.”
The apology catches me off guard with its genuine regret. When was the last time an authority figure expressed sorrow for failing to protect me rather than anger at my failure to protect them? “You saved us yesterday,” I point out. “Whatever your reasons for caution before, you acted when it mattered most.”
“Which brings us to why you’re here,” Mrs. Harpsons says, opening the largest file with hands that aren’t quitesteady. “The network isn’t dead—you’ve all discovered that by now. Your parents, the Queens, even figures like Dominic—they were middle management. The real power, The Architect you’ve heard mentioned, operates from shadows so deep that bringing them down will require resources and patience that no individual investigation can provide.”
She spreads out what looks like organizational charts, financial records andsurveillance photographs spanning decades. The scope is staggering—names I recognize from newspaper headlines, faces that appear regularly in society pages, institutions I thought were legitimate revealed as fronts for something infinitely darker.
“This is what I’ve been building for the past fifteen years,” Mrs. Harpsons continues, her voice carrying the weight of a lifetime’s work. “A comprehensive map of the network’s structure, their methods, their vulnerabilities. But documentation isn’t enough. To truly destroy this system, we need testimony from people who’ve experienced it from the inside.”
“People like us,” Luna says, understanding dawning in her emerald eyes.
“People exactly like you. Survivors who’ve found the courage to speak the truth despite the personal cost.” Mrs. Harpsons leans forward, her intensity filling the room like electrical current. “Belle, your testimony against your parents was brave but necessarily limited in scope. Luna, your survival of your parents’ exploitation provided crucial evidence. But together, with Erik’s connection to his DA brother and Max’s family ties inside financial systems—you represent themost comprehensive witness team ever assembled against this network.”
The possibility she’s offering—real justice, systemic change, the chance to ensure no other children suffer what we’ve endured—makes my chest tight with something that might actually be hope. But underneath the excitement lurks the familiar wariness that’s kept me alive. Every adult who’s promised to help me has eventually revealed their own agenda.
“What’s the catch?” I ask bluntly. “What do you want from us in exchange for your assistance?”
Mrs. Harpsons’ smile is approving, like I’ve passed some crucial test. “Smart girl. Always question the motives. The catch is that this process will take years, not months. The catch is that working within the system to dismantle the system requires patience, strategy, and a willingness to play an incredibly dangerous long game. The catch is that some of the evidence we’ll need might force you to revisit traumatic memories you’d rather leave buried forever.”
She’s not wrong. The thought of diving deeper into my past, of potentially recovering more memories of those chemically-erased nights, makes my skin crawl with familiar dread. But the alternative—letting The Architect continue operating, letting other children be fed to this machine of exploitation—feels worse than any personal discomfort I might endure.
“And the benefit?” Max asks, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what’s being proposed.
“Complete destruction of the network. Not just arrests and trials that remove visible players, but systemic change that prevents this kind of institutional exploitation from taking rootagain.” Mrs. Harpsons’ voice carries the weight of absolute conviction. “We’re not just seeking justice for past crimes—we’re building safeguards to protect future generations.”
I look around the table at Luna’s determined expression, at Erik’s protective fury, at Max’s unwavering support reflected in his dark eyes. We’ve all been shaped by this system in different ways, but we’ve also survived it. Maybe that survival comes with responsibility—not just to heal ourselves, but to ensure others don’t need healing from these same wounds.
“What do you need us to do?” I ask, my voice steadier than my racing heart.
Mrs. Harpsons’ smile transforms her entire face, revealing the idealist her great-great-grandfather must’ve been before corruption poisoned his vision. “Finish your education. Publicly, normally, as model students of Shark Bay University. Let the world see that this institution is producing graduates instead of victims. Meanwhile, help me document everything you remember about the network’s operations, every detail that might help us understand their full scope.”
“And in return?”
