Page 75 of Betray Me
The question hangs in the morning air, loaded with possibilities. What do I want? Not just for today, but for the future we’re fighting to claim?
“Justice,” I say finally. “I want to hunt down every last member of this network and watch them burn. I want to make sure no other children suffer what we suffered. And I want to do it with you.”
Max’s smile is fierce, predatory. “Then let’s get to work.”
***
An hour later, we’re sitting at the cabin’s rough wooden table, surrounded by the case files and documents we brought from my hidden stash. The coffee Max managed to brew over the fireplace tastes like motor oil, but the caffeine helps sharpen my focus as we spread out the evidence of my family’s crimes.
“Okay,” Max says, pulling out a legal pad. “Let’s start with what we know for certain. The Queens and your parents were middle management, not the architects of this network.”
I nod, sipping the awful coffee and studying a financial document that shows money flowing from shell companies to offshore accounts. “The real power is hidden deeper. People who maintained plausible deniability while my parents and the Queens took the risks.”
“So we need to follow the money trail, identify the protected players.” Max draws a circle at the center of his pad, writing “THE ARCHITECT” inside it. “Who had the power to order Janet Wilson’s murder? Who could command loyalty from your father?”
The question makes my skin crawl because I know the answer involves people I’ve met, people who smiled at me during those childhood gatherings while planning unspeakable things. “Start with the guest lists from the parties. Cross-reference them with the financial records.”
We work in focused silence, rebuilding the architecture of corruption piece by piece. My drug-damaged memories cooperate better than expected—faces emerging from chemical fog, conversations half-remembered, glimpses of power structures I was too young to fully understand.
“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a recurring name in the financial documents. “George Murphy. He’s mentioned in connection with fourteen different transactions over five years, but he was never charged.”
Max adds the name to our growing web of connections. “What do you remember about him?”
I close my eyes, letting the memories surface. “Gray hair, expensive suits. He always smelled like cigars and something else… medicinal. He was one of the men who attended my early gatherings, before I convinced Father to make me a spy instead of…” I can’t finish the sentence, but Max understands.
“He’s still out there,” Max says grimly. “Probably watching the trials, making sure all the loose ends get tied up.”
“Including us.” I pull out another document, this one showing payments to something called “Cerberus Solutions”—the private security firm mentioned in yesterday’s files. “They’ve been planning this cleanup for months.”
As we continue mapping the network’s structure, a horrifying picture emerges. My parents weren’t aberrations—they were part of a systematic exploitation ring that reached into every level of government, finance, and entertainment. Judges, senators, CEOs, media moguls. All of them protected by layers of shell companies and legal barriers, while children like Luna and me paid the price for their silence.
“There,” Max says, pointing to a cluster of names connected by financial ties. “These are the ones still operating. The survivors.”
I study the list, recognizing several faces from my childhood nightmares. “They’re the ones who want me dead. Not for revenge, but because I represent proof that their system can be exposed.”
“Which means Luna’s in danger too.”
The thought makes my blood run cold. Luna, who’s finally healing, finally building a life with Erik. She doesn’t deserve to have her peace shattered by the sins of people she’s never even met.
“We have to warn her,” I say, reaching for my phone before remembering it’s been compromised. “But how? If they’re monitoring communications—”
“Erik’s smart. He’ll have contingency plans.” Max’s jaw tightens with determination. “Right now, our priority is gathering enough evidence to expose these bastards before they can complete their cleanup operation.”
I return to the documents, my hands shaking slightly as I realize how close we came to walking into their trap. If we hadn’t left campus when we did, if we’d trusted the wrong person…
That’s when I see it.
“Max.” My voice comes out as barely a whisper. “Look at this.”
The document is old, predating my parents’ arrest by two years. It’s a personnel file for someone code-named “The Guardian”—a law enforcement asset who provided early warning about investigations and helped coordinate evidence suppression.
The real name listed at the bottom makes my vision blur: James Harper.
“No,” I breathe, the paper trembling in my hands. “No, this can’t be right.”
But the evidence is undeniable. Payment records, communication logs, operational reports. Detective Harper—the man who’s been investigating the network, who warned me about The Architect, who claimed to be protecting me—has been part of the conspiracy all along.
“Jesus Christ,” Max whispers, reading over my shoulder. “Belle, if Harper’s compromised—”
