Page 34 of Betray Me
I delete the text without responding. Let them think I’m planning Jessica’s death. Let them believe their perfect weapon is still under their control.
By the time they realize the truth, it will be too late to stop what I’ve set in motion.
I have twelve hours to become something I’ve never been before: not my father’s spy, not my family’s weapon, not even Luna’s rival.
Just Belle Gallagher, choosing her own path for the first time in her life.
Even if that path leads straight through hell.
PART THREE: THE TURNING POINT
Chapter 13: Breaking Patterns
Now
The federal building looms against the gray morning sky like a monument to justice I’ve never believed in. My hands shake as I climb the concrete steps, each one feeling like a walk toward my own execution. Jessica walks beside me, her usual nervous chatter replaced by grim silence. After our confrontation last night, after learning she’s been my handler all along, I should hate her. Instead, I feel something close to gratitude.
She’s giving me a chance to control my own narrative for once.
“He’s waiting in Conference Room B,” Jessica says as we pass through security. The metal detector beeps, and for a moment I panic, forgetting I’m not carrying anything more dangerous than my grandmother’s pearl earrings. “Belle, whatever happens in there—”
“Don’t.” I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended. “We’re past the point of apologies.”
The hallway stretches endlessly before us, fluorescent lights casting everything in harsh, unforgiving whites. Government buildings have a particular smell—disinfectant mixed with desperation and the lingering scent of lives being dismantled. I’ve been in enough of them since the Queens’ trial to recognize the atmosphere of institutional power.
David Stone looks exactly the same as when I saw him last—tall, lean, with the kind of penetrating stare that suggests hecan see through every lie I’ve ever told. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there are coffee stains on his white shirt that speak to long nights and longer cases.
“Ms. Gallagher.” He rises as we enter, extending a hand I reluctantly shake. His grip is firm, professional, but I catch him studying my face with the intensity of someone comparing me to photographs. “Thank you for coming in voluntarily.”
“Did I have a choice?” I settle into the chair across from him, crossing my legs with calculated precision. The conference room is sterile—white walls, no windows, a table that’s seen countless confessions and plea bargains.
“There’s always a choice,” David replies, settling back into his seat. “The question is whether you’re ready to make the right one.”
Jessica takes the chair beside me, her presence both comforting and damning. How many of our conversations has she reported back to this man? How many of my secrets has she already sold?
“Let’s skip the foreplay,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Jessica tells me you’re interested in what I know about my family’s operations. I’m interested in staying out of prison. Seems like we might be able to help each other.”
David’s eyebrows rise slightly at my directness. “You’re assuming I believe you’re innocent.”
“I’m assuming you’re smart enough to recognize the difference between a perpetrator and a victim who’s been made to look guilty.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “Myfamily has been manipulating me since I was eleven years old, Mr. Stone. The question is whether you want to prosecute another victim or use what I know to bring down the people who created this system.”
He opens a thick file, spreading photographs across the table like tarot cards predicting my doom. I recognize most of them—surveillance shots from parties, financial records, communication logs. But it’s the crime scene photos that make my stomach lurch.
Janet Wilson’s body, or what remains of it after five years in the ground. The official reports called it exposure and decomposition, but these photos show something more deliberate. More ritualistic.
“We found her three months ago,” David says quietly, watching my reaction. “Shallow grave in the woods outside Portland. Jessica helped us locate it based on information you’d shared with her.”
My eyes snap to Jessica, who has the decency to look ashamed. “Information I shared?”
“During one of your… episodes,” Jessica says softly. “You called me last spring, completely incoherent. They drugged you. You kept saying you could smell something rotting, that you knew where ‘she’ was buried. I thought you were having a breakdown, but I recorded the call just in case.”
The betrayal cuts deeper than expected. Even my moments of vulnerability have been cataloged, filed away as evidence against me.
David slides another photo across the table—a close-up of Janet’s remains that makes bile rise in my throat. “The medical examiner found something interesting under her fingernails. Skin cells that don’t match her DNA.”
“Let me guess,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “They match mine.”
“Along with traces of Rohypnol and several other compounds in her system. The same cocktail we believe was used on you that night.” David’s voice remains clinically neutral, but I can see the calculation in his eyes. “Your fingerprints were also found on her jewelry—a gold bracelet that was removed post-mortem.”
