Page 86 of Betray Me
Now
I wake to the sound of breaking news echoing through our grimy motel room, Max’s hand gentle on my shoulder as he coaxes me from the restless sleep that finally claimed me near dawn. The television screen flickers with images of Massachusetts General Hospital, reporters clustered outside like vultures waiting for carrion.
“Belle,” Max says softly, his voice carrying relief that makes my chest tight with hope I don’t dare fully embrace. “David’s awake.”
The words hit me like sunlight after endless darkness. I sit up too quickly, the cheap motel sheets falling away as I focus on the reporter’s words: “…District Attorney David Stone regained consciousness early this morning. Sources close to the investigation say he’s expected to make a full recovery…”
“Thank God,” I breathe, pressing my palm against my heart where it hammers with relief so profound it’s almost painful. “Max, if he’s okay—”
“Then we have a chance,” he finishes, settling beside me on the sagging mattress. His dark hair is tousled from sleep, stubble shadowing his jaw, but his eyes are alert with the same cautious hope I feel blooming in my chest.
The motel room looks different in daylight—still grimy and depressing, but somehow less oppressive. The water stains on the ceiling form patterns that might be clouds instead of omens.The industrial carpet bears witness to decades of transient lives, but it’s contained our secrets for one night without betraying us.
“Since they already know where we are,” I say, reaching for my laptop with hands that only tremble slightly, “I might as well check my email. Maybe there’s something useful.”
Max nods, though tension pulls at the corners of his eyes. We both know that opening this digital door means exposing ourselves to whatever psychological warfare our enemies have prepared. But hiding in ignorance feels more dangerous than facing whatever truths await.
The laptop boots with agonizing slowness, each second stretching like hours. When my email finally loads, most of the messages are spam or academic notifications that belong to a life that feels impossibly distant now. But there, buried among the digital detritus, is a message from Jessica that makes my breath catch.
From: J.Yarros.Secure@[encrypted]
Subject: Inheritance
Belle – I’m safe, in hiding, but I found something you need to know immediately. Your family’s assets may be frozen, but there’s an account in your name that predates all of this. It was established by someone named Margaret Gallagher – your grandmother? The attached documents will explain everything. Please be careful. Someone doesn’t want this information to surface.
– J
My grandmother. I have only the haziest memories of Margaret Gallagher—a stern woman with silver hair who visited when I was very young, who spoke in hushed tones with my mother and disappeared from our lives when I was eleven. My parents claimed she died of cancer, but looking back, their explanations always felt rehearsed, hollow.
“Belle?” Max’s voice seems to come from very far away. “What is it?”
I show him the email, watching his expression shift from curiosity to something approaching dread as he reads Jessica’s words. When I click on the attachments, the first document that opens is a bank statement showing an account balance that makes my vision blur.
Twenty-three million dollars.
“Jesus Christ,” Max whispers, leaning closer to study the screen. “Belle, that’s… that’s enough to disappear forever. New identities, safe houses, protection that doesn’t depend on government agencies.”
But it’s the second attachment that steals my breath completely. A letter, written in careful script on paper that’s yellowed with age:
My dearest Belle,
If you’re reading this, then the worst has happened. The network has claimed your parents, and you’ve discovered the truth about what we really are. I pray you’re stronger than I was, braver than I ever managed to be.
I was chosen to be The Architect’s bride when I was seventeen. It was presented as an honor—the chance to stand beside the most powerful person in the network, to bear children who would inherit a legacy of influence that stretched across generations. But I discovered the truth: The Architect doesn’t take wives. He takes breeding stock.
I fled on our wedding night, taking nothing but the clothes I wore and a determination to build a life free from their influence. I thought I’d escaped. I was wrong.
They let me marry your grandfather, let me have children, let me believe I was free. But I was never free. I was a long-term investment, a way to create bloodlines they could harvest when the time was right. Your mother, your father—they were raised from birth to serve the network. And you, my precious granddaughter, were always meant to be the prize.
The money in this account represents everything I managed to steal from them over thirty years of careful planning. Swiss accounts, shell companies, investments that couldn’t be traced back to the network’s main operations.
But Belle, you must understand: this is bigger than your parents, bigger than any single operation you’ve witnessed. The Architect I knew died fourteen years ago, but the network continued. Someone took his place, someone who’s been planning your family’s downfall from the moment you were born.
The photographs in the final attachment show the face of my Architect. Study it carefully. Patterns repeat in our world, and the sins of the past have a way of echoing through generations.
Use this money to disappear, my darling. Use it to build a life they can never touch. But if you choose to fight—and I pray you’re brave enough to make that choice—then use it as a weapon against the very system that created us all.
With all my love and desperate hope for your freedom,
