Page 98 of Betray Me
“The boat yesterday,” Max says, understanding dawning in his voice. “Our rescue at sea—”
“Was perfectly timed, wasn’t it? Just when hypothermia was about to claim you, Selena Harpsons appeared like an angel of mercy.” Dominic’s smile grows wider. “Did you never wonder how she found you in the middle of a storm with no functioning radio? How she knew exactly where to look? The guard who reported it to her was one of our men. The Architect has been planning your destruction since the moment you were born—not as punishment for betraying the network, but as the grand finale of an operation that began with your grandmother’s escape decades ago.”
The mention of my grandmother makes something cold crawl up my spine. “What does she have to do with this?”
“Everything.” Dominic steps closer, the gun never wavering. “Margaret Gallagher wasn’t just The Architect’s intended bride—she was his chosen successor. When she fled, when she tried to build a life outside the network’s control, she unknowingly began a generational game of chess that’s finally reaching its conclusion.”
“You’re talking in riddles,” Erik says, but his voice carries the strain of someone trying to project confidence while facing a loaded weapon.
“Then let me be clearer. Your grandmother gathered intelligence, accumulated wealth, built networks of her own—all in preparation for a war against The Architect. But what she never understood is that her rebellion was anticipated, even encouraged. Every move she made, every resource she gathered, every safeguard she established—it all strengthened the very system she thought she was fighting.”
The world tilts around me as fragments of my grandmother’s letter flash through my memory. Her confidence that the money would help me disappear or fight back. Her detailed intelligence about network operations. Her certainty that patterns repeat and sins echo through generations.
“She was feeding information to The Architect all along,” I breathe, the realization stealing my breath.
“Not consciously. But monitored, guided, shaped into becoming exactly the weapon needed to bring you all together in one place.” Dominic’s expression carries something approaching sympathy. “Your grandmother loved you, Belle. Her desire to protect you was genuine. But love makes people predictable, and predictable people can be controlled.”
Max’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his touch the only thing anchoring me to sanity as everything I believed about my family’s resistance crumbles around me.
“So what now?” Luna asks, her voice carrying the steel that once made her the most dangerous student at Shark Bay. “You kill us all, make it look like an accident, eliminate the last witnesses to your network’s crimes?”
“Oh, we’re well past the point of making things look accidental,” Dominic replies with genuine amusement. “Four students driven to suicide by the trauma of their testimonies? Found together at the cliffs where young love once blossomed? Tragic but understandable given the public shame their families have brought upon them.”
The casual cruelty in his voice—the way he speaks about our deaths like items on a business agenda—ignites something primal in my chest. Rage that burns away fear, determination that transcends self-preservation.
“The only problem with that plan,” I say, taking a step forward despite the gun trained on my heart, “is that we’re not ashamed of our testimonies. We’re proud of them.”
“Pride is a luxury you can’t afford anymore,” Dominic says, but something in his posture suggests my defiance has caught him off guard. “The network’s patience has limits, and yours have been exceeded.”
“The network’s patience?” Erik laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. “You mean The Architect’s patience. Tell me, Dominic—when was the last time you actually spoke to this mysterious figure? When did you last receive direct orders instead of messages filtered through intermediaries?”
For the first time since revealing himself, Dominic hesitates. It’s barely perceptible, just a fraction of a second where his confident façade wavers, but it’s enough to suggest Erik’s question has hit something vital.
“The Architect’s methods are not your concern,” Dominic says, but the smoothness has gone out of his voice.
“Because The Architect doesn’t exist anymore,” Luna says suddenly, playing on Dominic’s doubts. “Or never existed the way you think. You’re taking orders from someone who’s been dead for years, following scripts written by a ghost.”
Before Dominic can respond, before any of us can process the implications of Luna’s revelation, a gunshot splits the night air with violent finality.
Dominic’s expression shifts from surprise to confusion to something approaching peace as he crumples to the ground, the weapon falling from nerveless fingers to clatter against the rocks. Blood spreads dark against his white shirt, and his pale eyes stare sightlessly at the stars above.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” a voice says from the shadows behind us.
We spin as one to see Mrs. Harpsons emerging from the darkness, a smoking pistol held with the same steady competence she brings to administrative duties. Her silver hair gleams in the moonlight, and her expression carries the weight of someone who’s just made an irreversible choice.
“Mrs. Harpsons—” I start, but she cuts me off with a gentle smile.
“Selena, please. I think we’re past the point of formalities.” She moves to check Dominic’s pulse with clinical efficiency, confirming what we already know. “He’s been hunting you for months. It was only a matter of time before he cornered you somewhere the Federal Marshals couldn’t intervene.”
“You’ve been protecting us,” Max says, wonder and relief warring in his voice.
“I’ve been trying to. Sometimes that requires making choices that administrative training doesn’t prepare you for.” Selena secures the pistol in her jacket with practiced ease. “But yes—Dominic Griffiths will not be harming any more children.”
The enormity of what just happened crashes over me like the waves below. Mrs. Harpsons—Selena—just committed murder to save our lives. She’s crossed a line that can never be uncrossed, made herself complicit in violence that will haunt her forever.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words inadequate for what she’s given us.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she replies, her expression growing grim. “Dominic was right about one thing—this has all been orchestrated by forces larger than any of us understood. But Luna was wrong about who’s really pulling the strings.”
