Page 10 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

I move to the desk, where Stone has left several open files.

My heart pounds as I flip through pages of interview transcripts, witness statements, financial records.

The scope of the investigation is staggering—they’re not just looking at the Queens and my family, but the entire network that supported them.

Then I see it: a file labeled Wilson, Janet – Missing Persons/Homicide Investigation. My hands shake as I open it, revealing crime scene photos, medical examiner reports, a timeline of Janet’s last known activities.

And there, paperclipped to the inside cover, is a photograph I recognize with sick certainty: me, Luna, and Janet at what appears to be a party.

We’re all clearly under the influence of something, our eyes glazed and unfocused.

But what makes my blood freeze is the timestamp: the same night Janet Wilson disappeared.

“Shit,” I breathe, my carefully maintained composure finally cracking.

“That’s one word for it.”

I spin around, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Max Brooks stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasizes the lean strength of his frame, his hair slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it.

Even in my panic, I can’t help but notice how the afternoon light from the window catches the sharp angle of his jaw.

“Max! What are you doing here?”

He steps into the office, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. “I could ask you the same thing. But I think we both know why you’re really here.” His voice is low, intimate in the small space. “You’re looking for evidence against your family. Same as me.”

“You’re wrong. I was just—”

“Belle.” The way he says my name stops my protests cold. There’s something in his tone, something that speaks of shared understanding and mutual desperation. “We’re past the point of lies, don’t you think?”

He moves closer, and I catch his scent—something clean and masculine that makes my pulse skip.

When did Max Brooks become so… substantial?

The playboy reputation that once made me dismiss him seems like armor now, hiding depths I never bothered to explore.

Well, that, and the fact that I had a boyfriend, who turned out to be a cheating bastard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.

“The Janet Wilson case.” He gestures to the file still open in my hands. “Stone’s been interviewing half the campus about that night. About who was there, what they saw, what they remember.” His dark eyes bore into mine. “About what you and Luna might have done.”

The words hit like ice water. “We didn’t do anything. We can’t even remember—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, and suddenly, he’s close enough that I can see gold flecks in his brown eyes. “But someone wants everyone to think you did. Someone’s been very carefully laying breadcrumbs that lead straight to you and Luna.”

Footsteps echo in the hallway outside, growing closer. Max’s head snaps toward the door, his body tensing with predatory awareness.

“Janitor,” he murmurs. “Cleaning rounds start early on Fridays.”

Panic floods my system. If I’m caught in Stone’s office with classified files, it won’t just be academic probation. It’ll be criminal charges. Game over.

Max moves with fluid grace, gathering the scattered papers and sliding them back into proper order. “Storage closet,” he whispers, pointing to a door I hadn’t noticed. “Now.”

I don’t argue. We slip into the cramped space just as the outer door opens. Through the crack, I can see the janitor’s cart rolling past, hear the soft whistle of someone going about their evening routine.

The closet is barely large enough for both of us. Max’s body presses against mine in the darkness, solid and warm and distractingly male. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through his sweater, and I can smell that intoxicating scent that’s uniquely his.

“Why?” I whisper against his ear, my lips accidentally brushing his skin. He shivers, and I feel an answering tremor run through me. “Why are you helping me?”

His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers interlacing with careful precision.

“Because we’re in the same boat, Belle. Both our families are connected to this mess.

Both of us are trying to find Janet and figure out what really happened.

” He pauses, his breath warm against my temple. “And because I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Those files you kept from your father’s office. The ones you didn’t burn like you were supposed to.” His voice is soft but certain. “I know you have them. And I think they might contain the key to proving our innocence.”

The janitor’s whistling fades as he moves to another room. Max waits another full minute before carefully opening the closet door. The office is empty again, but I can hear voices in the hallway—more staff arriving for evening duties.

“We need to go,” Max says, but his hand doesn’t release mine. “Different exits. I’ll take the back stairs, you take the elevator.”

“Max, wait.” I catch his arm as he turns to leave. The contact sends electricity up my arm, and I see something flicker in his expression—awareness, attraction, things I never thought I’d see directed at me. “This doesn’t make us partners.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming him from merely handsome to devastating. “Doesn’t it? We’re both trying to solve the same mystery, Belle. Both trying to protect ourselves from the same threats. Seems like partnership to me.”

He leans closer, close enough that I can see the stubble shadowing his jaw, close enough to count his eyelashes. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. For a moment, I want him to.

Instead, he steps back, the spell breaking. “Think about it. You know where to find me when you’re ready to stop fighting this alone.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in David Stone’s office with my heart racing and my mind spinning. The file about Janet Wilson sits on the desk where I left it, the photograph of Luna, Janet, and me staring up accusingly.

I slip out of the building without incident, but my thoughts chase each other in frantic circles. Max is right—we are in the same boat. Both our families are implicated, and both of us are carrying secrets that could destroy or save us.

***

Back in my room, I retrieve the hidden files from beneath my floorboard. With fresh eyes, I begin examining documents I thought I understood. Financial records, correspondence, surveillance reports—all the evidence of my family’s crimes that I couldn’t bring myself to destroy.

But now I’m looking for something specific: any mention of Janet Wilson, any connection to the night she disappeared.

I find it buried in a coded document near the bottom of the stack.

At first glance, it looks like routine business correspondence.

But the dates jump out at me—they correspond to unsolved missing persons cases I remember from news reports.

Young women who vanished without a trace, their disappearances generating brief media attention before fading into cold case files.

Janet Wilson’s name is there, along with two others: Sarah Martinez, disappeared three years ago. Kelly Lee, vanished eighteen months ago. All listed under a header that makes my blood run cold: Cleanup Operations – Phase Complete.

Cleanup operations. As if these women were problems to be solved, messes to be tidied away.

My hands shake as I cross-reference the dates with my own calendar. Sarah Martinez disappeared on a night I have no memory of. Kelly Lee vanished after a party I supposedly attended but can’t recall. And Janet Wilson…

I close my eyes, trying to force the memories to surface. But there’s nothing there except the familiar void that marks my blackout nights. Nights when I supposedly drank too much, partied too hard, woke up with gaps in my memory and blood under my fingernails.

Nights when young women disappeared forever.

The pattern is undeniable, horrifying in its implications. Either I’m a serial killer who’s somehow blocked out her crimes, or someone has been very carefully making it look that way.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: Stop digging, Belle. Some graves are better left undisturbed.

I stare at the message until it blurs, the coded document trembling in my other hand. Someone’s watching, someone knows what I’ve found. The same someone who sent the black rose, who’s been pulling strings from the shadows.

But Max’s words echo in my mind: we’re in the same boat. For the first time since this nightmare began, I’m not facing it alone. Whatever happened on those lost nights, whatever role I played in these disappearances, I don’t have to carry the burden of truth by myself.

I think of Max’s hand in mine, warm and steady in the darkness. Of the way he looked at me—not with pity or disgust, but with understanding. With partnership.

Maybe it’s time to stop fighting this alone.

Maybe it’s time to trust someone else with my darkest secrets.

The thought terrifies me. But as I sit surrounded by evidence of crimes I can’t remember committing, I realize that terror might be the only honest emotion I have left.