Page 88 of Betray Me
“We need to go back,” I say, the words surprising me as they emerge. “Max, everything we’ve been searching for, all the answers about who’s really pulling the strings—they’re at Shark Bay. They’ve always been at Shark Bay.”
“That could be exactly what they want us to think,” Max warns. “What if this photograph, this connection, is designed to draw us back to campus where they can control the situation?”
“Then they’ve underestimated what we’re capable of now.” I close the laptop with hands that have stopped shaking, my mind already racing through possibilities. “Think about it—if Mrs. Harpsons was trying to keep us away, and someone else wants us back, then returning might put us right in the middle of a conflict we didn’t know existed.”
Max stands, pacing the small confines of the motel room. “A conflict between different factions of the network, maybe. Those who want to complete whatever ritual was interrupted, and those who think it’s too dangerous to continue.”
“Which gives us an opportunity.” I realize, feeling something that might be hope kindle in my chest. “We don’t have to fight the entire network at once. We find the fault lines, exploit the divisions, turn them against each other.”
“Belle, that’s incredibly dangerous. If we’re wrong about Mrs. Harpsons, if she’s more involved than we think…”
“Then we’ll be walking into a trap. But if we’re right, if she’s been trying to protect the school from the very forces that created us…” I think about my grandmother’s letter, about thirty years of carefully gathered intelligence. “Maybe we’re not as alone as we thought.”
Max stops pacing, his expression shifting from fear to something more calculating. “You’re talking about returning to campus not as fugitives, but as students who’ve decided to stop running and finish our education.”
“I’m talking about walking back into the heart of whatever’s been orchestrating our lives and finding out who’s really in control.” I stand, moving to the window where morning light reveals an empty parking lot stretching toward possibilities I can’t yet imagine. “My grandmother spent decades gathering intelligence about this network. She knew something big was coming, something that would require her granddaughter to choose between running and fighting.”
“And you’ve chosen to fight.”
“I’ve chosen to end this.” I turn back to him, seeing my determination reflected in his dark eyes. “Max, we have resources now. Money, contacts, information they don’t know exists. We can return to Shark Bay not as victims, but as investigators with the tools to expose whatever’s been hidden there.”
“We’ll need Luna and Erik,” Max says, his voice carrying the same resolve I feel building in my chest. “And we’ll need to be very careful about how we approach this. If there are competing factions within the network…”
“Then we figure out who’s on which side before we make our move.” I think about Mrs. Harpsons' ring, about the way she looked at me during that morning conversation—not with the predatory assessment I’ve learned to recognize, but with something that might have been genuine concern. “Starting with finding out exactly how that ring ended up on our school director’s finger.”
As Max begins planning our return to the place where this nightmare began, I feel the final pieces of my transformation clicking into place. Not from victim to survivor, but fromsurvivor to investigator. Someone with the resources and determination to uncover truths that have been buried for generations.
The Gothic towers of Shark Bay University have watched over decades of carefully orchestrated horrors, their ancient stones bearing witness to crimes that span generations. But those same stones are about to face something the network never anticipated: one of their very own creations, armed with her grandmother’s intelligence and absolutely nothing left to lose.
They forged me in their fires, shaped me with their cruelty, trained me to be their perfect weapon.
Now they’re about to learn what happens when that weapon finds the target.
Chapter 31: Desperate Measures
Now
The coastal town of Millfield clings to the rocky shoreline like a barnacle, refusing to be scraped away by time and tide. Max and I emerge from the tree line after another night of moving through back roads and forgotten paths, our clothes damp with morning mist, our faces etched with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from months of running from shadows.
The harbor spreads before us—a collection of weathered docks and listing boats that have seen better decades. Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries mixing with the sound of waves slapping against hulls and the distant rumble of an approaching storm. Dark clouds gather on the horizon, promising the kind of weather that grounds ferries and keeps sensible people indoors.
Perfect cover for the desperate.
“There,” Max says, pointing toward a figure hunched against the wind near the far end of the harbor. Even at this distance, I recognize Erik’s tall frame, the protective way he positions himself between Luna and the rest of the world. Relief floods through me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckle.
They made it. Despite Harper’s surveillance, despite the network’s reach, despite everything trying to tear us apart, we’re all here.
Luna turns as we approach, her dark hair whipping in the salt-laden wind. The months since our last face-to-face meeting have changed her—she looks stronger somehow, moregrounded, but there’s a wariness in her emerald eyes that speaks to constant vigilance.
“Belle.” She doesn’t smile, but there’s genuine relief in her voice. “You look like hell.”
“Feel worse,” I admit, falling into the kind of honest exhaustion that only comes when you’re among people who understand the weight you’re carrying. “How long have you been here?”
“Since yesterday. We’ve been staying in a boarding house up the hill, paying cash, keeping our heads down.” Erik’s voice carries the same strained calm I remember from his testimony days. “The ferries stopped running this morning. Storm’s supposed to last at least forty-eight hours.”
I study the harbor, counting the boats that look seaworthy enough to make the crossing to Shark Bay Island. Not many, and most of those appear to be commercial fishing vessels with owners who wouldn’t sell even under normal circumstances.
“We can’t wait,” Max says, echoing the urgency I feel crawling up my spine. “Every hour we delay gives them more time to consolidate their position, to eliminate loose ends.”
