Page 42 of Betray Me
He leaves, and suddenly, I’m alone with Dominic—the man who trained me to be a spy, who taught me to slip drugs into drinks without detection, who’s probably killed more people than I can imagine.
“Your father’s getting sentimental in his old age,” Dominic observes, settling into the chair at my vanity table. “Dangerous trait in our line of work.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie, but he sees right through me.
“Of course you do. You’re Richard Gallagher’s daughter—intelligence gathering is in your blood.” His smile turns predatory. “Which makes your recent cooperation with federal investigators all the more… disappointing.”
My blood turns to ice. They know. They’ve known all along that I’m working with David Stone, probably known since the moment I first contacted him.
“I haven’t cooperated with anyone,” I protest, but Dominic just laughs.
“Belle, darling, I trained you better than that. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice when our own asset started playing for the other team?” He stands, moving to the window with fluid grace. “David Stone is a competent prosecutor, but he’s nowhere near as clever as he thinks he is.”
The wire against my skin feels like it’s broadcasting my location to every hostile force in the world. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The wire you’re wearing, for instance.” His words hit like physical blows. “Really, Belle, we taught you to be subtle. This amateur hour surveillance work is beneath your talents.”
I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t give him the satisfaction of confirming what he already knows. But my silence is confession enough.
“Relax,” he continues, turning back toward me. “We’re not going to hurt you. At least, not yet. Your father still harbors illusions about family loyalty, about the possibility of bringing you back into the fold.”
“And you don’t?”
“I think you’re a security risk that needs to be neutralized.” His voice carries the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. “But Richard wants to try the gentle approach first. A family dinner, some special wine, a chance to… reset your priorities.”
The drugs. They’re going to drug me again, maybe even send me to the facility in Munich to erase whatever memories I’ve recovered, turn me back into the compliant daughter who asks no questions and remembers no inconvenient truths.
“I won’t drink anything,” I say flatly.
“You will,” Dominic assures me with terrifying confidence. “Because the alternative is so much worse. Not just for you, butfor everyone you care about. Your friend Luna, for instance. It would be such a shame if she suffered a tragic accident.”
The threat is clear, unmistakable. Compliance or Luna dies. Submission or everyone I’ve learned to care about pays the price for my defiance.
“Father mentioned someone pulling the strings that night,” I say, desperate to keep him talking, to get more evidence on the recording. “Someone who wanted Janet Wilson dead. Who was he talking about?”
Dominic’s expression shifts, becoming something approaching amusement. “You really don’t remember, do you? Even after all this time, all these questions, you still don’t understand what you witnessed that night.”
“Then tell me.”
“That would spoil the surprise.” He moves toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “But I will say this—if you’re starting to remember those lost hours, if the chemical fog is finally lifting, then you need to be very careful about who you trust. Because the person who ordered Janet Wilson’s death, who arranged for you and Luna to be there as witnesses… that person is closer than you think.”
The door closes behind him with soft finality, leaving me alone with questions that multiply faster than I can process them. The wire against my skin has captured everything—Father's admission that I was there when Janet died, Dominic's threats against Luna, the revelation that someone wanted me to believe I was responsible for a murder I didn't commit. Every word is being transmitted to David Stone and his team.
But it’s Father’s words that echo in my mind: “If you’re remembering those nights, then he’s already getting to you.”
He. Not they, not the network, not the investigation. He. Someone specific, someone Father fears enough to go pale at the mention of recovered memories.
Someone who’s been pulling strings from the shadows while everyone else danced to his tune.
As I sit in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by the trappings of innocence I lost years ago, a terrible understanding begins to dawn. The gaps in my memory, the carefully orchestrated blackouts, the positioning of Luna and me as potential scapegoats—it’s all been orchestrated by someone with intimate knowledge of our family’s operations.
Someone close enough to drug us, position us, manipulate us without raising suspicion.
Someone who’s been playing a longer game than any of us realized.
The wire burns against my skin like a promise of justice, but justice requires surviving long enough to deliver the evidence to David Stone. And with every passing minute, that survival seems less and less likely.
Dinner is in two hours. Whatever they’re planning to put in my food, whatever memories they’re planning to erase, whatever person they’re planning to turn me back into—I have two hours to figure out how to escape.
