Page 31 of Betray Me
I’m my own spy now, gathering evidence to protect myself.
The distinction should feel liberating. Instead, it feels like I’m becoming exactly what I’ve always feared—a predatorwho uses people as tools, who seduces and discards without conscience.
But if becoming a monster is the price of learning the truth about Janet Wilson’s murder, about my own potential guilt, about the gaps in my memory that might hide unforgivable sins… then maybe it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
Some truths are worth any cost.
Even if that cost is whatever remains of my soul.
I fall asleep with Jaden’s scent still on my skin and Janet Wilson’s death photos burned into my retinas, wondering which version of myself will wake up in the morning—victim or villain, seeker of truth or architect of destruction.
In my dreams, I’m my younger self again, standing over Janet’s body with blood on my hands, but my face is blank with chemical amnesia. A voice whispers from the shadows: “Remember this moment, Belle. Because next time, it will be you.”
I wake up screaming, and for the first time in months, I’m not sure if the nightmares are memories or warnings.
Chapter 12: The Informant
Now
The envelope slides under my door at 3:17 AM, the soft whisper of paper against marble the only sound in Pemberton Hall’s sleeping corridors. I’m awake, of course—sleep has become a luxury I can’t afford since the threatening messages began. The thick cream paper bears the university’s official seal, but something about its weight feels wrong, too substantial for routine correspondence.
Inside, a single photograph stops my breath.
Jessica sits across from David Stone in what appears to be a coffee shop, leaning forward conspiratorially as she slides a manila folder across the table. The timestamp shows last Tuesday—the same day she claimed she was sick and missed our study session. The same day, I confided in her about Max’s alliance proposal.
My hands shake as I study the image, searching for signs of manipulation, desperate to find proof this is some elaborate setup. But the lighting is natural, the angle candid. This isn’t staged surveillance—it’s documentary evidence of betrayal.
A handwritten note falls from the envelope:Your handler has been compromised. Terminate the relationship immediately, or we will.
Handler. The word hits like ice water. All this time, I thought Jessica was my friend—my first and only real friend since I came here. The girl who brought me soup when I was sick, who heldmy hair when I threw up after particularly brutal nightmares, who promised she didn’t judge me for my family’s crimes.
She was my keeper all along.
I dress quickly in dark jeans and a black sweater, my movements mechanical as muscle memory takes over. Years of sneaking through my father’s mansion taught me how to move silently, how to become invisible when necessary. The skills I learned as his spy serve me well now as I navigate the dormitory’s sleeping halls.
Jessica’s room is two floors down, and I know her schedule by heart—she takes sleeping pills every night at 11 PM, claims they help with anxiety from her family’s corporate empire stress. Another lie, probably. Everything about our friendship has been performance art.
Her door is unlocked, which strikes me as either supremely confident or incredibly stupid. I slip inside, closing it behind me with practiced silence. Jessica sleeps deeply, her breathing even and untroubled. How peaceful she looks for someone living a double life.
I settle into the chair beside her desk, content to wait. The walls of her room tell a story I never bothered to read before—photographs of family gatherings where her parents pose with political figures I recognize from my father’s files. Awards from summer camps and debate tournaments. A scholarship certificate from an organization that, now that I think about it, has always seemed suspiciously well-funded.
The Yarroses weren’t peripheral players in the network—they were embedded deep enough to place their daughter as my monitor.
“Belle?” Jessica’s voice is thick with sleep and confusion. “What are you doing here?”
I hold up the photograph, watching her face transform from drowsy bewilderment to something approaching fear. “I think the better question is what you’ve been doing, Jessica.”
She sits up slowly, pulling her silk sleep shirt closed as if modesty matters now. “I can explain—”
“Can you?” I lean forward, my voice dropping to the dangerous whisper I learned from my father. “Because I’d love to hear how you explain reporting my every move to a federal prosecutor while pretending to be my friend.”
“It’s not what it looks like.” The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and rehearsed. “Belle, you have to understand—my family was already under investigation. David Stone offered us immunity in exchange for information. We didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Jessica. You chose to lie to me for nearly two years.” I study her face, cataloging the micro-expressions that reveal truth from deception. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you been my handler?” The word tastes like poison on my tongue. “Because I’m starting to think that us becoming best friends wasn’t a random coincidence.”
