Chapter 4 Return to Shark Bay
Now
On Monday morning, I dress carefully—designer jeans instead of a skirt, a cashmere sweater instead of a silk blouse. Trying to strike a balance between maintaining my image and not appearing too privileged when my family name is now synonymous with trafficking and abuse.
The campus has filled, and it doesn’t resemble a ghost island anymore.
The weekends are always like that. As I walk past what used to be my father’s office, before he was arrested and put in a temporary prison cell awaiting trial, I catch glimpses of students, all of whom seem to know exactly who I am and what my family has done.
I step out of Pemberton Hall into the weak morning sunlight, immediately aware of how conversations stutter and stop as I pass. A group of freshmen actually cross to the other side of the path to avoid me. Their whispers follow like wasps:
“—Gallagher crime syndicate—”
“—helped torture Luna Queen—”
“—can’t believe she’s still here—”
No matter how much time passes, some news doesn’t get old until the entire matter is put to rest. Judging by the size of this particular crime, it could take several more years, if not even an entire decade, for it to blow over.
My phone buzzes. A text from Father’s smuggled prison phone: You know what happens to snitches.
I stop mid-stride, ice flooding my veins.
He knows I testified against the Queens a year ago.
But that was strategic—saving ourselves by helping to topple our former allies.
This threat means something different. Has he discovered that I kept some files from his office instead of burning everything?
Does he suspect I’m considering turning state’s evidence against our own family?
I force myself to keep walking, to maintain the perfect posture drilled into me since childhood. The text is a warning, but also a test. Richard Gallagher doesn’t make idle threats.
The dining hall looms ahead, and I steel myself for the gauntlet of entering alone. Where once I held court at the center table with Jessica and our carefully curated inner circle, now I’ll be lucky to find an empty corner where I can eat in relative peace.
The moment I enter, a hush falls over the nearest tables.
I grab a coffee and yogurt, ignoring the way the cashier avoids eye contact while taking my meal card.
As predicted, my former table is occupied by Jessica and others who’ve swiftly distanced themselves from the Gallagher taint.
Jessica glances up, our eyes meeting briefly before she deliberately turns away.
I find a small table by the windows, only to realize too late that I have a perfect view of Luna Queen holding court across the room.
The irony is sharp enough to cut—Luna, once the campus pariah, now surrounded by admirers and supporters.
Erik Stone sits beside her, his arm protective around her shoulders.
Professor Austin is also there, no doubt discussing his upcoming book, where Luna will write the foreword, exposing our families’ crimes.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Luna: “Need to talk. Urgent. Library, third floor, 2 PM.”
I wonder what’s prompted this direct communication.
Although we’ve started our weekly Thursday coffee meetings since her parents received their prison sentence, we’ve been careful to keep the rest of our public interactions as carefully mediated as possible—formal testimonies, scheduled meetings with lawyers present. Something must’ve happened.
The morning passes in a blur of classes, where professors eye me warily and students give me a wide berth.
In Advanced European History, Dr. Garrison actually stammers when calling my name for attendance.
In Molecular Biology, my lab partner requests a reassignment.
By lunch, I’m exhausted from maintaining my composure against the thousand small cuts of social exile.
My mail has been forwarded from the campus post office—they don’t even want me touching the general delivery anymore. I flip through it on my way back to Pemberton: credit card statements, a letter from Mother’s attorney, university administration notices.
At the bottom, an unmarked envelope with no return address.
My hands shake slightly as I open it in the privacy of my room.
Inside, a single black rose, perfectly preserved.
And a news clipping: Cold Case: Senator’s Daughter Still Missing After Five Years.
Janet Wilson’s smiling face stares up at me from the yellowed paper.
Someone has scrawled across it in red ink: You were there too. Check your memories.
The rose falls from my nerveless fingers.
Janet Wilson. The gap in my memory. The photos I found in Father’s safe—Luna, whom I also don’t remember ever being at the same party as me, and me, clearly drugged at a party, posed beside Janet Wilson.
The same Janet Wilson who disappeared that night and hasn’t been seen since.
I sink onto my bed, fighting nausea. Someone knows about that night. Someone wants me to remember what happened during those lost hours. But why now? Why break five years of silence?
Unless…
I grab my laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard as I search for recent news about the Wilson case. There—a small item from last week: FBI reopens investigation into Senator’s daughter’s disappearance following new evidence in Queen trafficking trial.
New evidence. The FBI’s expanded investigation into our families’ networks. Someone’s worried about what they might find, worried enough to send warnings. But the phrasing haunts me: “Check your memories.”
As if memories are something you can simply access, like files in a cabinet.
As if the chemical fog that blankets that night can be lifted by will alone.
I’ve tried to remember, especially since finding those horrible photos.
But there’s nothing—just fragments of sensation.
Hands holding me down. A woman’s voice, sickeningly sweet. The prick of a needle. Then nothing.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
Silence, then a mechanically distorted voice: “Stop digging, Belle. Some secrets are better left buried.”
“Who is this?”
“A friend. Someone who knows what really happened to Janet Wilson. Someone who knows what you did.”
My blood runs cold. “I didn’t do anything. I can’t even remember—”
“Memory is a funny thing. Sometimes we forget to protect ourselves. Sometimes we’re made to forget. But the body remembers, doesn’t it? The blood under your fingernails remembered.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my hands, imagining dark crescents of dried blood beneath manicured nails. The photos flashed through my mind—that strange mark on my neck, the thin line on Luna’s throat, the gold bracelet I didn’t recognize. And Janet Wilson is there in one photo, gone in the next.
What did they make us do? Or what did we witness that required chemical erasure?
At 2 PM, I make my way to the library’s third floor. It’s nearly empty—most students prefer the modern study lounges to these dusty stacks. I find Luna in a corner carrel, her dark hair shorter now, her whole bearing different from the wild creature who tormented me last year.
“Thanks for coming,” she says quietly, gesturing to the chair beside her.
“Your text said urgent.”
She pulls out her phone, showing me a message: The Wilson girl’s body was never found. But you and Belle know where it is. Time to remember, before the FBI does. – A Friend
My veins turn to ice. “When did you get this?”
“This morning. Right after the news broke about the FBI reopening the case.” Luna’s green eyes bore into mine. “I can’t remember that night, Belle. Can you?”
I pull out my phone, showing her the photo I took of the black rose and news clipping. “Someone wants us to remember. But I’ve tried. The whole night is just… gone.”
“Not the whole night.” Luna’s voice drops. “I remember arriving at the party. Being given a special drink. I didn’t remember it before, but now I’m sure that you were there. You wore a gold dress. They kept saying it was a celebration.”
“Celebration of what?”
“I don’t know. But I remember seeing Janet Wilson. She was happy, laughing. Said she was finally going to be free.” Luna’s brow furrows. “Then it gets fuzzy. Next clear memory is waking up in my own bed the next afternoon.”
I close my eyes, trying to summon any fragment of that night. “There are photos. In the files I… didn’t destroy back then, when your parents were on trial. They’re of you and me on a couch with Janet. Then later, just us. She’s gone, and there’s blood…”
“Blood?”
“Spots on my dress. And under my fingernails, according to whoever called me.”
Luna goes very still. “They think we killed her.”
“Or they want us to think we did.” The words tumble out as the possibility forms. “What better way to ensure silence than making us believe we’re murderers? What better leverage than shared guilt over something we can’t even remember?”
“But what if we did?” Luna’s voice is barely audible. “What if that’s why they drugged us so heavily? To make us forget what we’d done?”
The weight of that possibility settles between us. Two girls from powerful families, raised to be pawns in our parents’ games. Used, abused, traded like commodities. What if one night, we snapped? What if Janet Wilson became collateral damage in a moment of drug-fueled rage?
“We need help,” I say finally. “Someone who can investigate without alerting our families.”
“Erik’s brother, David. He’s been building cases against the rest of the network.”
I shake my head. “He’s too official. The moment he starts digging, word will get back to people who want this buried.”
Luna’s quiet for a moment. “What about Detective Harper? He’s one of the original officers who’s been looking for Janet since her disappearance. He might know something about that night that we don’t.”
“Whoever called me told me to stop digging,” I admit. “Said some things should stay buried.”