Page 22 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

They know. They know about the wire, about my cooperation with David Stone, about everything. They know I didn’t ‘take care’ of Jessica. This entire meeting has been a performance designed to gather evidence of my betrayal before they eliminate the threat I represent.

“Of course,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll make sure the cook knows.”

I flee the study on unsteady legs, the wire feeling like it’s burning a hole through my chest. The hallway stretches endlessly before me, every shadow potentially hiding another threat, every sound potentially heralding my doom.

But as I climb the stairs toward my childhood bedroom, a new resolve hardens in my chest. They think they’ve cornered me, think they can drug me into submission one more time. They’re wrong.

I’ve spent too many years being their victim, their weapon, their perfectly controlled daughter. Not anymore.

If they want to play games with my memory, with my life, then I’ll show them exactly what Belle Gallagher is capable of when she stops playing by their rules.

The wire against my skin pulses with each heartbeat, a technological lifeline connecting me to David Stone and the possibility of justice. Whatever happens at dinner tonight, whatever they try to make me forget, this recording will survive.

And with it, the truth about Janet Wilson, about the network’s crimes, about the monsters who wear human faces and call themselves family.

I may not survive the night, but their secrets won’t survive much longer.

The game ends tonight, one way or another.

***

My bedroom looks exactly as I left it—a museum to the girl I used to be, complete with ribbons and trophies that mock the innocence they represent. I move to the window, studying the grounds for potential escape routes while my mind catalogs everything I’ve learned.

The recording device has captured enough evidence to implicate my father, Dominic, and Victor in conspiracy, murder, and God knows what else. But getting that evidence to David Stone requires surviving the next few hours, and every instinct I have screams that survival is far from guaranteed.

A soft knock at my door makes me freeze. “Come in,” I call, expecting Mother or perhaps one of the staff.

Instead, Father enters alone, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. His expression is unreadable as he studies my face, and I force myself to project calm despite the terror clawing at my chest.

“We need to talk,” he says quietly, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. “Privately.”

I settle into the window seat, maintaining distance while keeping my posture relaxed. “About what?”

“About Janet Wilson.” The words hit like physical blows, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. “About the night she died. About what you may or may not remember.”

My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t lie to me, Belle.” His voice carries paternal disappointment, as if I’m a child who’s been caught stealing cookies rather than a daughter who’s been betraying family secrets.

“You’ve been asking questions. Searching for answers about gaps in your memory.

That’s dangerous for everyone involved.”

The wire feels like it’s made of molten metal against my skin as I realize this might be my only chance to get him to confess on tape. “I just want to understand what happened that night. Why I can’t remember anything after arriving at the party.”

Father’s expression shifts, becoming something approaching pity. “Some memories are taken away as an act of mercy, darling. To protect you from truths that would destroy you.”

“What truths?” I lean forward, letting desperation color my voice. “What happened to Janet Wilson? Was I there when she died?”

For a moment, vulnerability flickers across his features—the mask slipping to reveal something human underneath "You were there," he admits quietly.

"But not by choice. None of you were there by choice.

You, Luna, and Janet—three girls drugged beyond conscious thought, positioned for something that needed witnesses. "

"I saw the photos," I whisper. "All three of us on that couch. But I can't remember any of it."

"Luna, you, and Janet. But you fought the drugs harder than expected. Started to wake up, started to resist at the worst possible moment." His hands clench into fists. "We had to remove you. Take you somewhere safe while the necessary work was completed."

"Safe?" The word tastes like bile.

"The facility. Where we could protect you from remembering what you'd already seen, ensure you'd never be able to testify about the early events.

" He looks almost proud. "You were unconscious in a medical chair while Janet Wilson died.

Technically innocent. Practically complicit. Permanently silent."

The room spins slightly as fragments of sensation assault me—the taste of copper, the feeling of something sticky under my fingernails, the sound of my own screaming muffled by chemical fog. Not memories, exactly, but echoes of memories that refuse to stay buried.

“Who killed her?” I whisper.

Father’s face goes pale. “That’s not the right question, Belle. The right question is who wanted her dead and why they needed you to believe you were responsible.”

Before I can process the implications of his words, before I can demand more answers, the door opens without warning. Dominic steps inside, his cold smile fixed in place as he takes in the scene.

“Richard,” he says pleasantly, but there’s steel beneath the civility. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.”

I catch the subtle nod that passes between them—some kind of signal that makes my father’s expression harden back into the mask of calculated control I know so well.

“Just having a heart-to-heart with my daughter,” Father replies, rising from the bed. “Making sure she understands the importance of family loyalty.”

“Of course.” Dominic’s gaze drifts to me with predatory assessment. “And I’m sure Belle appreciates the… guidance. Speaking of which, your wife is asking for you downstairs. Something about reviewing the dinner menu.”

It’s a dismissal disguised as a request, and Father recognizes it as such. He moves toward the door, pausing only to place a paternal hand on my shoulder.

“We’ll continue our conversation later, darling. There’s so much more you need to understand about that night. About who was really pulling the strings.”

He leaves, and suddenly, I’m alone with Dominic—the man who trained me to be a spy, who taught me to slip drugs into drinks without detection, who’s probably killed more people than I can imagine.

“Your father’s getting sentimental in his old age,” Dominic observes, settling into the chair at my vanity table. “Dangerous trait in our line of work.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie, but he sees right through me.

“Of course you do. You’re Richard Gallagher’s daughter—intelligence gathering is in your blood.” His smile turns predatory. “Which makes your recent cooperation with federal investigators all the more… disappointing.”

My blood turns to ice. They know. They’ve known all along that I’m working with David Stone, probably known since the moment I first contacted him.

“I haven’t cooperated with anyone,” I protest, but Dominic just laughs.

“Belle, darling, I trained you better than that. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice when our own asset started playing for the other team?” He stands, moving to the window with fluid grace. “David Stone is a competent prosecutor, but he’s nowhere near as clever as he thinks he is.”

The wire against my skin feels like it’s broadcasting my location to every hostile force in the world. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The wire you’re wearing, for instance.” His words hit like physical blows. “Really, Belle, we taught you to be subtle. This amateur hour surveillance work is beneath your talents.”

I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t give him the satisfaction of confirming what he already knows. But my silence is confession enough.

“Relax,” he continues, turning back toward me. “We’re not going to hurt you. At least, not yet. Your father still harbors illusions about family loyalty, about the possibility of bringing you back into the fold.”

“And you don’t?”

“I think you’re a security risk that needs to be neutralized.” His voice carries the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. “But Richard wants to try the gentle approach first. A family dinner, some special wine, a chance to… reset your priorities.”

The drugs. They’re going to drug me again, maybe even send me to the facility in Munich to erase whatever memories I’ve recovered, turn me back into the compliant daughter who asks no questions and remembers no inconvenient truths.

“I won’t drink anything,” I say flatly.

“You will,” Dominic assures me with terrifying confidence. “Because the alternative is so much worse. Not just for you, but for everyone you care about. Your friend Luna, for instance. It would be such a shame if she suffered a tragic accident.”

The threat is clear, unmistakable. Compliance or Luna dies. Submission or everyone I’ve learned to care about pays the price for my defiance.

“Father mentioned someone pulling the strings that night,” I say, desperate to keep him talking, to get more evidence on the recording. “Someone who wanted Janet Wilson dead. Who was he talking about?”

Dominic’s expression shifts, becoming something approaching amusement. “You really don’t remember, do you? Even after all this time, all these questions, you still don’t understand what you witnessed that night.”

“Then tell me.”

“That would spoil the surprise.” He moves toward the door, pausing at the threshold.

“But I will say this—if you’re starting to remember those lost hours, if the chemical fog is finally lifting, then you need to be very careful about who you trust. Because the person who ordered Janet Wilson’s death, who arranged for you and Luna to be there as witnesses… that person is closer than you think.”

The door closes behind him with soft finality, leaving me alone with questions that multiply faster than I can process them.

The wire against my skin has captured everything—Father's admission that I was there when Janet died, Dominic's threats against Luna, the revelation that someone wanted me to believe I was responsible for a murder I didn't commit.

Every word is being transmitted to David Stone and his team.

But it’s Father’s words that echo in my mind: “If you’re remembering those nights, then he’s already getting to you.”

He. Not they, not the network, not the investigation. He. Someone specific, someone Father fears enough to go pale at the mention of recovered memories.

Someone who’s been pulling strings from the shadows while everyone else danced to his tune.

As I sit in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by the trappings of innocence I lost years ago, a terrible understanding begins to dawn.

The gaps in my memory, the carefully orchestrated blackouts, the positioning of Luna and me as potential scapegoats—it’s all been orchestrated by someone with intimate knowledge of our family’s operations.

Someone close enough to drug us, position us, manipulate us without raising suspicion.

Someone who’s been playing a longer game than any of us realized.

The wire burns against my skin like a promise of justice, but justice requires surviving long enough to deliver the evidence to David Stone. And with every passing minute, that survival seems less and less likely.

Dinner is in two hours. Whatever they’re planning to put in my food, whatever memories they’re planning to erase, whatever person they’re planning to turn me back into—I have two hours to figure out how to escape.

Two hours to get this recording to safety.

Two hours to find a way to save not just myself, but Luna and everyone else caught in the web of whoever’s really been pulling the strings.

The game ends tonight. I just pray I live long enough to see how it finally plays out.