Page 35 of Betray Me
The bracelet. I remember it from the photos I found in Father’s safe, gleaming on my wrist as I lay unconscious beside Luna. My hands begin to tremble, and I clench them into fists to stop the shaking.
“I don’t remember any of it,” I admit, the words feeling like stones in my throat. “That entire night is just… gone. Black. Like someone took an eraser to my memory.”
“Or like someone drugged you beyond the point of forming coherent memories,” David suggests, agreeing with Jessica’s assessment. “The question is whether that was to hide your crimes or to make you believe you’d committed them.”
The distinction hits me like lightning. I’ve been operating under the assumption that my blackouts were a punishment, a way to spare me from remembering my own sins. But what if they were manipulation? What if someone wanted me to feel guilty for crimes I didn’t commit?
“Why would they do that?” I ask.
“Control,” Jessica answers before David can respond. “Guilt is the most effective chain they could put on you. If you believe you’re capable of murder, you’ll never risk defying them.”
I think of the blood under my fingernails that night, of Mother calmly washing my hands while telling me some memories are better forgotten. Of Father’s expression when I mentioned remembering those nights—not guilt, but fear.
“There’s something else,” David says, sliding a final photograph across the table. This one shows symbols carved into Janet’s skin—the same marks I’ve seen tattooed on the inner circle of my parents’ associates. “These weren’t random. They’re part of a ritual, something with specific meaning to your parents’ network.”
“I’ve seen those symbols before,” I breathe, studying the intricate patterns. “On my parents’ friends. Hidden tattoos, usually on their chest over the heart.”
"We believe Janet Wilson was killed as part of an initiation ritual. Someone earning their place in the network's inner circle." David slides another document across the table. "You were there for the beginning—the photos, the setup. But then something went wrong."
I stare at surveillance timestamps, my heart pounding. "Wrong how?"
"You started fighting the drugs harder than expected. Becoming too aware, too resistant." David's voice drops. "So they had you removed mid-ceremony and taken to a memory alteration facility. We have video evidence of you arriving there—drugged, barely conscious—while Janet Wilson was still alive back at the party."
"But my blood—my DNA at the scene—"
"From the early part of the evening, before they moved you. You were there long enough to leave evidence, to be photographed, to handle Janet's jewelry. But you weren't there for the actual murder."
“Dominic,” I whisper, the realization hitting like ice water. “He was my handler, my trainer. He had access to me that night, could have drugged me, positioned me to look guilty.”
“It is possible that Dominic Griffiths performed the actual murder while you were unconscious,” David confirms. “But proving that requires testimony from someone who was there. Someone who knows the truth about what happened.”
“I can’t testify about something I don’t remember.”
“You can testify about everything else,” David says firmly. “The structure of the network, the financial systems, the recruitment methods. You can help us understand how they selected victims and why Janet Wilson specifically was targeted.”
I look at Jessica, searching her face for some sign of the friendship I thought we’d shared. “How long have you been working with him?”
“Four months,” she admits. “After Luna’s parents were arrested, my family knew we’d be next. David offered us immunity in exchange for cooperation.”
“And monitoring me was part of that cooperation?”
“Protecting you was part of it,” Jessica corrects. “Belle, your father was planning to eliminate you once the investigation got too close. Having me report back to David was the only way to keep you safe.”
The words should comfort me, but they feel like another manipulation. How many people in my life have claimed to protect me while using me for their own purposes?
David pulls out a tablet, showing me grainy security footage. "This is from the Blackstone Facility—a private clinic your parents used for 'memory adjustment.' The timestamp shows you arriving at 11:47 PM, completely unconscious."
On screen, I watch my limp body being carried through institutional corridors. I look like a broken doll, my party dress torn and stained.
"Janet Wilson's murder happened at approximately 12:30 AM, forty-three minutes after this footage was taken. You were sedated and undergoing preliminary memory alteration procedures when she died." David's voice softens. "Belle, you were present for the setup, but you were removed before the actual killing. They wanted you to remember enough to feel guilty, but not enough to testify about what you witnessed."
The relief is overwhelming and nauseating at once. "So I didn't kill her."
"No. But someone very much wanted you to believe you did."
“What do you want from me?” I ask David directly.
“Everything,” he says simply. “Financial records, communication protocols, client lists. The locations of offshoreaccounts, the identities of shell company owners, the methods they use to launder money through legitimate businesses.”
