Page 17 of Betray Me
“Belle.” Her voice stops me at the door. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find a way through this. You’re a bright young woman with tremendous potential. Don’t let your family’s sins destroy your future.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and flee.
The hallway feels like a tunnel, my vision narrowing with each step. I need to get out of here, need to think, need to process what just happened. But first, I need to know what David Stone was really doing here. What files was he carrying? What students has he been interviewing?
The thought strikes me with sudden clarity: if Stone is building a case against my family, he’ll have records. Interview notes, evidence lists, and maybe even witness statements. Information that could help me understand just how precarious my position really is.
I know where the administrative offices keep their sensitive files—Father’s position on the board gave me access to areas most students never see. If I can just get to some of Stone’s notes before they’re transferred back to the mainland…
The plan forms as I walk, each step more determined than the last. The afternoon shift change happens at 3 PM. Security is lighter then, focus divided between departing day staff and arriving evening crews. I’ll have maybe fifteen minutes before someone notices I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.
But first, I need an alibi. A reason to be in the building at that time.
***
At 2:55 PM, I approach the administration building carrying a stack of legitimate forms—transcript requests, course change petitions, anything that gives me a valid reason to be here. The afternoon security guard barely glances at my student ID as I swipe through the main entrance.
I take the elevator to the third floor, where the more sensitive administrative functions are housed. The hallway is quiet, most staff either gone for the day or focused on end-of-shift procedures. Perfect.
Stone’s temporary office is marked with a simple placard:District Attorney – Visiting Investigator.The door is locked, but years of navigating my father’s compound taught me basic lock-picking skills. The tumblers give way with minimal resistance.
Inside, the office is spartanly furnished but packed with evidence. File boxes line the walls, labeled with names I recognize—former associates of my parents, other families in the network, peripheral players who thought they were safe. My name appears on several labels, along with Luna’s and others I don’t immediately recognize.
I move to the desk, where Stone has left several open files. My heart pounds as I flip through pages of interview transcripts, witness statements, financial records. The scope of the investigation is staggering—they’re not just looking at the Queens and my family, but the entire network that supported them.
Then I see it: a file labeledWilson, Janet – Missing Persons/Homicide Investigation.My hands shake as I open it, revealingcrime scene photos, medical examiner reports, a timeline of Janet’s last known activities.
And there, paperclipped to the inside cover, is a photograph I recognize with sick certainty: me, Luna, and Janet at what appears to be a party. We’re all clearly under the influence of something, our eyes glazed and unfocused. But what makes my blood freeze is the timestamp: the same night Janet Wilson disappeared.
“Shit,” I breathe, my carefully maintained composure finally cracking.
“That’s one word for it.”
I spin around, my heart hammering against my ribs. Max Brooks stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasizes the lean strength of his frame, his hair slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it. Even in my panic, I can’t help but notice how the afternoon light from the window catches the sharp angle of his jaw.
“Max! What are you doing here?”
He steps into the office, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. “I could ask you the same thing. But I think we both know why you’re really here.” His voice is low, intimate in the small space. “You’re looking for evidence against your family. Same as me.”
“You’re wrong. I was just—”
“Belle.” The way he says my name stops my protests cold. There’s something in his tone, something that speaks of sharedunderstanding and mutual desperation. “We’re past the point of lies, don’t you think?”
He moves closer, and I catch his scent—something clean and masculine that makes my pulse skip. When did Max Brooks become so… substantial? The playboy reputation that once made me dismiss him seems like armor now, hiding depths I never bothered to explore. Well, that, and the fact that I had a boyfriend, who turned out to be a cheating bastard.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.
“The Janet Wilson case.” He gestures to the file still open in my hands. “Stone’s been interviewing half the campus about that night. About who was there, what they saw, what they remember.” His dark eyes bore into mine. “About what you and Luna might have done.”
The words hit like ice water. “We didn’t do anything. We can’t even remember—”
“I know.” His voice is gentle, and suddenly, he’s close enough that I can see gold flecks in his brown eyes. “But someone wants everyone to think you did. Someone’s been very carefully laying breadcrumbs that lead straight to you and Luna.”
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside, growing closer. Max’s head snaps toward the door, his body tensing with predatory awareness.
“Janitor,” he murmurs. “Cleaning rounds start early on Fridays.”
Panic floods my system. If I’m caught in Stone’s office with classified files, it won’t just be academic probation. It’ll be criminal charges. Game over.
