Page 18 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Now

The federal building looms against the gray morning sky like a monument to justice I’ve never believed in.

My hands shake as I climb the concrete steps, each one feeling like a walk toward my own execution.

Jessica walks beside me, her usual nervous chatter replaced by grim silence.

After our confrontation last night, after learning she’s been my handler all along, I should hate her.

Instead, I feel something close to gratitude.

She’s giving me a chance to control my own narrative for once.

“He’s waiting in Conference Room B,” Jessica says as we pass through security. The metal detector beeps, and for a moment I panic, forgetting I’m not carrying anything more dangerous than my grandmother’s pearl earrings. “Belle, whatever happens in there—”

“Don’t.” I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended. “We’re past the point of apologies.”

The hallway stretches endlessly before us, fluorescent lights casting everything in harsh, unforgiving whites.

Government buildings have a particular smell—disinfectant mixed with desperation and the lingering scent of lives being dismantled.

I’ve been in enough of them since the Queens’ trial to recognize the atmosphere of institutional power.

David Stone looks exactly the same as when I saw him last—tall, lean, with the kind of penetrating stare that suggests he can see through every lie I’ve ever told.

His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there are coffee stains on his white shirt that speak to long nights and longer cases.

“Ms. Gallagher.” He rises as we enter, extending a hand I reluctantly shake. His grip is firm, professional, but I catch him studying my face with the intensity of someone comparing me to photographs. “Thank you for coming in voluntarily.”

“Did I have a choice?” I settle into the chair across from him, crossing my legs with calculated precision. The conference room is sterile—white walls, no windows, a table that’s seen countless confessions and plea bargains.

“There’s always a choice,” David replies, settling back into his seat. “The question is whether you’re ready to make the right one.”

Jessica takes the chair beside me, her presence both comforting and damning. How many of our conversations has she reported back to this man? How many of my secrets has she already sold?

“Let’s skip the foreplay,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Jessica tells me you’re interested in what I know about my family’s operations. I’m interested in staying out of prison. Seems like we might be able to help each other.”

David’s eyebrows rise slightly at my directness. “You’re assuming I believe you’re innocent.”

“I’m assuming you’re smart enough to recognize the difference between a perpetrator and a victim who’s been made to look guilty.

” The words come out steadier than I feel.

“My family has been manipulating me since I was eleven years old, Mr. Stone. The question is whether you want to prosecute another victim or use what I know to bring down the people who created this system.”

He opens a thick file, spreading photographs across the table like tarot cards predicting my doom. I recognize most of them—surveillance shots from parties, financial records, communication logs. But it’s the crime scene photos that make my stomach lurch.

Janet Wilson’s body, or what remains of it after five years in the ground. The official reports called it exposure and decomposition, but these photos show something more deliberate. More ritualistic.

“We found her three months ago,” David says quietly, watching my reaction. “Shallow grave in the woods outside Portland. Jessica helped us locate it based on information you’d shared with her.”

My eyes snap to Jessica, who has the decency to look ashamed. “Information I shared?”

“During one of your… episodes,” Jessica says softly. “You called me last spring, completely incoherent. They drugged you. You kept saying you could smell something rotting, that you knew where ‘she’ was buried. I thought you were having a breakdown, but I recorded the call just in case.”

The betrayal cuts deeper than expected. Even my moments of vulnerability have been cataloged, filed away as evidence against me.

David slides another photo across the table—a close-up of Janet’s remains that makes bile rise in my throat. “The medical examiner found something interesting under her fingernails. Skin cells that don’t match her DNA.”

“Let me guess,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “They match mine.”

“Along with traces of Rohypnol and several other compounds in her system. The same cocktail we believe was used on you that night.” David’s voice remains clinically neutral, but I can see the calculation in his eyes.

“Your fingerprints were also found on her jewelry—a gold bracelet that was removed post-mortem.”

The bracelet. I remember it from the photos I found in Father’s safe, gleaming on my wrist as I lay unconscious beside Luna. My hands begin to tremble, and I clench them into fists to stop the shaking.

“I don’t remember any of it,” I admit, the words feeling like stones in my throat. “That entire night is just… gone. Black. Like someone took an eraser to my memory.”

“Or like someone drugged you beyond the point of forming coherent memories,” David suggests, agreeing with Jessica’s assessment. “The question is whether that was to hide your crimes or to make you believe you’d committed them.”

The distinction hits me like lightning. I’ve been operating under the assumption that my blackouts were a punishment, a way to spare me from remembering my own sins. But what if they were manipulation? What if someone wanted me to feel guilty for crimes I didn’t commit?

“Why would they do that?” I ask.

“Control,” Jessica answers before David can respond. “Guilt is the most effective chain they could put on you. If you believe you’re capable of murder, you’ll never risk defying them.”

I think of the blood under my fingernails that night, of Mother calmly washing my hands while telling me some memories are better forgotten. Of Father’s expression when I mentioned remembering those nights—not guilt, but fear.

“There’s something else,” David says, sliding a final photograph across the table.

This one shows symbols carved into Janet’s skin—the same marks I’ve seen tattooed on the inner circle of my parents’ associates.

“These weren’t random. They’re part of a ritual, something with specific meaning to your parents’ network. ”

“I’ve seen those symbols before,” I breathe, studying the intricate patterns. “On my parents’ friends. Hidden tattoos, usually on their chest over the heart.”

"We believe Janet Wilson was killed as part of an initiation ritual. Someone earning their place in the network's inner circle." David slides another document across the table. "You were there for the beginning—the photos, the setup. But then something went wrong."

I stare at surveillance timestamps, my heart pounding. "Wrong how?"

"You started fighting the drugs harder than expected.

Becoming too aware, too resistant." David's voice drops.

"So they had you removed mid-ceremony and taken to a memory alteration facility.

We have video evidence of you arriving there—drugged, barely conscious—while Janet Wilson was still alive back at the party. "

"But my blood—my DNA at the scene—"

"From the early part of the evening, before they moved you. You were there long enough to leave evidence, to be photographed, to handle Janet's jewelry. But you weren't there for the actual murder."

“Dominic,” I whisper, the realization hitting like ice water. “He was my handler, my trainer. He had access to me that night, could have drugged me, positioned me to look guilty.”

“It is possible that Dominic Griffiths performed the actual murder while you were unconscious,” David confirms. “But proving that requires testimony from someone who was there. Someone who knows the truth about what happened.”

“I can’t testify about something I don’t remember.”

“You can testify about everything else,” David says firmly. “The structure of the network, the financial systems, the recruitment methods. You can help us understand how they selected victims and why Janet Wilson specifically was targeted.”

I look at Jessica, searching her face for some sign of the friendship I thought we’d shared. “How long have you been working with him?”

“Four months,” she admits. “After Luna’s parents were arrested, my family knew we’d be next. David offered us immunity in exchange for cooperation.”

“And monitoring me was part of that cooperation?”

“Protecting you was part of it,” Jessica corrects. “Belle, your father was planning to eliminate you once the investigation got too close. Having me report back to David was the only way to keep you safe.”

The words should comfort me, but they feel like another manipulation. How many people in my life have claimed to protect me while using me for their own purposes?

David pulls out a tablet, showing me grainy security footage. "This is from the Blackstone Facility—a private clinic your parents used for 'memory adjustment.' The timestamp shows you arriving at 11:47 PM, completely unconscious."

On screen, I watch my limp body being carried through institutional corridors. I look like a broken doll, my party dress torn and stained.

"Janet Wilson's murder happened at approximately 12:30 AM, forty-three minutes after this footage was taken.

You were sedated and undergoing preliminary memory alteration procedures when she died.

" David's voice softens. "Belle, you were present for the setup, but you were removed before the actual killing.

They wanted you to remember enough to feel guilty, but not enough to testify about what you witnessed. "

The relief is overwhelming and nauseating at once. "So I didn't kill her."