Page 92 of Betray Me
At first, I think it’s lightning reflecting off the water, or maybe hallucinations brought on by exposure and exhaustion.But the lights are steady, purposeful, cutting through the storm toward us with mechanical precision.
“There,” I breathe, pointing toward what could be stars or could be salvation. “Do you see that?”
The others turn, following my gaze toward pinpricks of light that seem to be growing brighter, closer. For a long moment, no one speaks, afraid that voicing hope might make it disappear.
“It’s a boat,” Max says finally, wonder and relief warring in his voice. “Jesus Christ, it’s actually a boat.”
The rescue vessel cuts through the storm toward us with the purposeful movement of someone who knows exactly where they’re going. As it draws closer, I can make out its sleek lines, the professional efficiency of its crew, the powerful searchlights that pin us in their beam like actors on a stage.
We wave frantically, shouting over the wind even though we know they’ve already seen us. The relief is so overwhelming that I feel tears mixing with the salt spray on my face.
But as the rescue boat pulls alongside us, as professional hands help us aboard and wrap us in thermal blankets, something nags at the back of my consciousness. How did they find us? We’ve been drifting for hours in a storm that would make normal search and rescue operations impossible.
“Thank God we found you,” a familiar voice says as I’m helped onto the larger vessel’s deck. “I’ve been searching for hours.”
I look up through the rain and spray to see Selena Harpsons, Shark Bay’s director, her usually perfect hair plastered to her head, but her expression radiating genuine relief and concern.
“Mrs. Harpsons?” I manage through chattering teeth. “How did you—”
“Later,” she says firmly, guiding me toward the warm interior of her boat. “First, we get you all warmed up and safe. Then, we’ll talk about what brought you out here in the middle of a storm.”
As warmth begins returning to my numb extremities, as the crew of what I now see is namedSelena’s Graceworks with professional efficiency to stabilize our condition, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers warnings I’m too exhausted to fully process.
How did she know to look for us? How did she find us in the middle of a storm with no functioning radio or beacon? And why does this rescue feel less like salvation and more like another carefully orchestrated move in a game we still don’t understand?
But for now, wrapped in thermal blankets and slowly feeling sensation return to my fingers and toes, I allow myself to simply be grateful that we’re alive. Whatever questions need answering can wait until we’re back on solid ground.
The storm continues raging around us, but insideSelena’s Grace, we’re safe, warm, and heading back to the island we thought we’d never see again.
Selena moves between us with genuine maternal concern, checking our temperatures, making sure we’re drinking the hotsoup her crew prepared. “You gave us quite a scare,” she says softly, tucking another blanket around Luna’s shivering form.
“One of the night security guards spotted flashes of light out on the water—probably lightning reflecting off your boat. When the weather got worse, I knew someone might be in trouble out there.” I want to ask more questions, but exhaustion is winning over curiosity.
My eyelids grow heavy as warmth finally begins to chase away the bone-deep cold, and I allow myself to simply be grateful that someone cared enough to look for us.
Chapter 33: Return to Familiar Ground
Now
The Gothic spires of Shark Bay University pierce the storm-dark sky like accusations, their familiar silhouettes both welcoming and ominous asSelena’s Gracecuts through the choppy waters toward the island’s protected harbor. I stand at the boat’s rail, salt spray stinging my face, watching the place that shaped me into a weapon rise from the churning sea like something from a fever dream.
“Almost home,” Max murmurs beside me, his voice carrying the same complex mix of relief and apprehension that churns in my chest. His hand finds mine on the rail, fingers intertwining with the automatic intimacy we’ve developed over so much time of running, hiding, and surviving together.
Home. The word feels foreign in my mouth, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to face. Shark Bay was never home—it was a carefully constructed stage where I learned to perform the role of Belle Gallagher, perfect daughter and willing spy. But looking at those ancient stones now, feeling the familiar weight of the island’s isolation settling around us, I realize it might be the closest thing to home I’ve ever known.
“The docks look different,” Luna observes from where she leans against Erik’s protective bulk. Her voice carries the same analytical edge I remember from our early days as rivals, before we understood we were fighting the same war from different trenches. “More security cameras. Motion sensors along the waterline.”
She’s right. The modifications are subtle but unmistakable to eyes trained in surveillance and counter-surveillance. Someone has been upgrading Shark Bay’s defenses, turning the already isolated campus into something approaching a fortress.
Mrs. Harpsons moves between us with practiced efficiency, checking our thermal blankets and monitoring our recovery from the hypothermia that nearly claimed us in those dark waters. “The upgrades were necessary,” she says, following Luna’s gaze toward the enhanced security apparatus. “After everything that’s happened—the trials, the media attention, the ongoing investigation—the board insisted on additional protections.”
“Protection from what?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
“From people who might want to silence the school’s connection to recent events.” Her pale eyes meet mine with something that might be genuine concern. “Belle, your testimonies opened doors that certain parties would prefer remained closed. Luna’s as well. The network your families served has resources we’re only beginning to understand.”
The boat shudders as we approach the private dock normally reserved for visiting dignitaries and board members. In the harbor’s artificial lights, I can see figures waiting—groundskeepers and maintenance staff, their faces familiar from my years as a student. Normal people living normal lives, unaware they’re working for an institution built on the bones of exploited children.
“How did you know to look for us?” Max asks as Mrs. Harpsons guides us toward the gangplank. It’s the questionthat’s been nagging at me since our rescue, the detail that doesn’t quite fit the narrative of coincidental salvation.
