Page 25 of Betray Me
As we work, I become aware of other things. The way Max’s fingers brush mine when we reach for the same document. The warmth of his body as he leans closer to point out details on a chart. The subtle cologne that seems designed to short-circuit rational thought.
When he looks up from a financial record, our faces are inches apart. I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, but also something else—an intensity that has nothing to do with our investigation.
“Belle,” he says quietly, and my name on his lips sounds different than it ever has before. Not calculated or manipulative, but almost… reverent.
The air between us is charged with electricity. I’ve felt attraction before—used it, weaponized it, controlled it. But this is different. Raw and honest and terrifying in its genuineness.
He leans forward, and I know he’s going to kiss me. Part of me wants it desperately—wants to lose myself in physical sensation, to forget for a moment the weight of secrets and betrayals that define my existence.
But as his lips are near mine, panic floods my system. Not fear of him, but fear of myself. Fear of wanting something that isn’t tied to survival or manipulation. Fear of the unfamiliar territory of genuine desire.
I pull back sharply, my chair scraping against the floor as I put distance between us.
“Don’t,” I say, voice shakier than I’d like. “This isn’t… we can’t…”
Max freezes, hands still extended toward me. For a moment, hurt flashes across his features before he carefully masks it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting back. “I misread the situation.”
“No, you didn’t.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “That’s the problem.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “You’re not ready.”
“I don’t know how to be ready for something like this.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Everything I know about attraction, about desire—it’s all been tied to survival. To get what I need or protect myself from what I don’t want. I’ve never…”
“Never what?”
“Never wanted someone just because I wanted them. I was simply following orders.” The confession feels like stripping naked in public. “I don’t know how to separate genuine attraction from learned behavior.”
Max nods slowly, and I see something shift in his expression. Not disappointment but understanding. Perhaps even respect.
“Then we take it slow,” he says simply. “Figure it out as we go.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. When was the last time someone offered me patience instead of pressure? When did anyone care about my comfort over their own gratification?
“The alliance still stands?” I ask.
“The alliance still stands.” He begins gathering the documents, careful not to touch me as he works. “Whatever else happens or doesn’t happen between us, Belle, we’re stronger together than apart.”
After Max leaves, I sit alone in my room, surrounded by evidence of our collaboration. For the first time in years, I feel something approaching hope. Not the desperate, clawing hope of a trapped animal, but something steadier. The hope of someone who’s found an ally in the darkness.
My laptop chimes with email notification. Probably more university administration bullshit about my “academic standing” or “disciplinary review.” I’m about to ignore it when I see the sender: “A Friend.”
The same designation from the threatening texts about Janet Wilson.
With shaking fingers, I open the message. It contains a single attachment—a police sketch. The image loads slowly, pixelated at first, then sharpening into clarity.
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
The woman in the sketch looks exactly like me. Same bone structure, same eyes, same mouth. It’s so accurate it could have been drawn from a photograph.
The email contains only a brief message:This sketch was circulated five years ago in connection with Janet Wilson’s disappearance. The witness described a young woman, approximately 12-13 years old, seen leaving the party where Janet was last observed alive. Do you remember now?
I stare at the sketch until my eyes water, trying to force memories to surface. But there’s nothing—just the same black void that’s always existed around that night.
The implications are staggering. If this sketch was accurate, if I was truly there that night, then my memory loss isn’t just about protecting me from trauma. It’s about protecting me from the knowledge of my culpability.
Was I merely a witness to Janet Wilson’s murder? Or was I something more—an unwilling accomplice, perhaps, or worse?
