Chapter 15 The Turning
Now
The wire feels like a burning brand against my skin, the tiny recording device taped beneath my bra sending phantom electrical pulses through my chest with every heartbeat.
David Stone’s words echo in my mind as the Gallagher family car winds through the familiar streets toward my childhood prison: “This is your chance to prove you’re serious about cooperation, Belle.
But if you’re playing games with me, if this is some elaborate setup… ”
I press my fingertips against the window, watching the manicured lawns and iron gates of old money pass by in a blur of privilege and corruption.
My driver—Dominic, who came to work with my father after the Queens were sentenced—catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
It’s a not-so-subtle warning. He knows. They all know what kind of monsters they serve.
“Almost there, Belle,” he says coldly, and I wonder if he suspects this might be the last time he drives me to the mansion as a Gallagher daughter rather than a federal witness.
The estate looms before us like something from a nightmare, all dark stone and towering windows that reflect the overcast sky.
I’ve been gone for less than two months, but already it feels foreign, hostile.
The wire burns hotter against my skin as we pass through the security gates, past the guards who nod respectfully while undoubtedly reporting my arrival to multiple handlers.
Mother waits in the front hall, elegant as always in cream silk and pearls that cost more than most people’s cars. But there’s something brittle about her composure today, hairline cracks in the perfect facade that speak to sleepless nights and mounting pressure.
“Darling,” she breathes, pulling me into an embrace that feels more like a performance than affection. “You look thin. They’re not feeding you properly at that school.”
“I’m fine, Mother.” I return her hug with calculated warmth, hyperaware of the recording device capturing every word. “Just busy with exams. You know how it is.”
She studies my face with the intensity of someone reading tea leaves, searching for signs of betrayal or weakness. “Your father’s waiting in his study. There are… associates here today. Business matters that require discretion.”
Associates. The word sends ice through my veins because I know exactly what kind of business my father conducts behind closed doors. The kind that leaves girls like Luna Queen broken and traumatized. The kind that made Janet Wilson disappear forever.
“Of course,” I murmur, following her through corridors lined with family portraits—generations of Gallagher patriarchs who built their fortunes on the bodies of the vulnerable. “I’ll be the perfect daughter.”
The study door is heavy oak, thick enough to muffle screams. As Mother knocks, I take a steadying breath and remind myself why I’m here. The wire against my skin isn’t just David Stone’s insurance—it’s my chance to finally gather evidence against the monsters who raised me.
“Come in,” Father’s voice calls, and Mother pushes open the door to reveal a scene that could’ve been lifted from my nightmares.
He sits behind his massive mahogany desk like a king holding court, his silver hair perfectly styled despite the stress lines around his eyes.
To his left, Dominic is already lounging in a leather armchair with predatory grace.
But it’s the third man who makes my blood freeze—Victor Reeves, the network’s chief strategist and the most dangerous person I’ve ever encountered.
He was the one who forced me to put myself on the line and publicly testify against the Queens, claiming it would manipulate the spotlight on my family from negative to positive PR if we presented ourselves as victims instead.
“Belle.” Father rises, crossing to me with arms outstretched. “My beautiful daughter, home at last.”
His embrace feels like being hugged by a viper, all calculated warmth hiding venomous intent. The wire presses painfully against my ribs as he holds me too tight, too long, his cologne masking the underlying scent of corruption that clings to him like smoke.
“Father,” I breathe against his shoulder, letting relief color my voice. “I’ve missed you so much. The things they’re saying in the news, the investigation… I’ve been so worried.”
“All handled, darling.” He releases me, keeping his hands on my shoulders as he studies my face. “The Queens may be behind bars, but they were always expendable. We Gallaghers are made of stronger stuff.”
Dominic’s laugh is as sharp as breaking glass. “Indeed, though they’ve served their purpose beautifully. Though their trials have been… illuminating. Amazing what people will confess when they’re desperate to reduce their sentences.”
I force myself to look appropriately confused rather than terrified. “Confess to what?”
“Nothing that concerns you, princess,” Father says quickly, but I catch the warning glance he shoots Dominic. “Adult business. Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about.”
The condescension stings, but I embrace it, letting it reinforce their image of me as the sheltered daughter who knows nothing about the family’s true operations. Meanwhile, the wire captures every word, every telling pause, every inadvertent revelation.
“The Wilson situation requires delicate handling,” Victor speaks for the first time, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to life-and-death decisions. “The FBI’s renewed interest is… concerning.”
Father’s jaw tightens. “Janet Wilson has been dead for five years. If they had evidence connecting us to her disappearance, they would’ve acted by now.”
“Unless someone who was there that night is starting to remember,” Dominic suggests with silky menace. “Memory is such a fragile thing. Sometimes the drugs we use to protect people from traumatic experiences… wear off.”
The words hit like physical blows. Someone who was there that night. Someone whose memories might be returning. They’re talking about me, about Luna, about the gaps in our recollections that might be the only things keeping us alive.
“The Queen girl has been remarkably restrained in her public statements,” Victor observes, studying a file that makes my stomach lurch. “But our intelligence suggests she’s been asking questions. Meeting with investigators. Going to therapy. If she recovers the wrong memories…”
“Then we handle it,” Father says flatly. “The same way we’ve handled other security risks over the years.”
Handle it. Handle Luna. The implication is unmistakable, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping. They’re discussing murdering Luna Queen with the same casual tone they’d use to plan a dinner party.
“What about the other loose ends?” Dominic asks, his gaze drifting toward me with predatory assessment. “Your girl has been surprisingly cooperative with the investigation. Too cooperative, perhaps.”
My blood turns to arctic water as I realize they suspect me. Not just of remembering, but of actively working against them. Father’s hands tighten on my shoulders, and I feel like prey caught in a trap.
“Belle did what was asked of her. She understands her loyalties,” Father says carefully, his voice carrying subtle warning. “Don’t you, darling?”
“Of course,” I breathe, injecting just the right amount of wounded confusion into my tone. “Family is everything. I would never do anything to hurt our family.”
The lie tastes like poison on my tongue, but it’s the only thing standing between me and a shallow grave beside Janet Wilson’s remains. Victor’s pale eyes study me with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen, and I force myself to meet his gaze with perfect innocence.
“Nevertheless,” he says slowly, “it might be wise to ensure the girl’s continued discretion. A reminder of what’s at stake if she becomes… talkative.”
“What kind of reminder?” I ask, letting my voice shake slightly. Playing the role of the frightened daughter who’s just now understanding the true nature of her family’s business.
“Nothing dramatic,” Dominic assures me with a smile that makes my skin crawl. “Just a conversation. Perhaps over dinner. A chance to… reconnect with family values.”
I know exactly what kind of dinner he means. The kind where drinks are specially prepared and memories go missing afterward. The kind where young women learn to be grateful for chemical amnesia rather than full awareness of what’s been done to them.
“I should get back to school,” I say quickly, stepping away from Father’s grip. “Exams are coming up, and I can’t afford to fall behind.”
“Actually,” Father says, his tone brooking no argument, “I think you should stay for dinner tonight. Your mother’s prepared your favorite meal, and it’s been too long since we’ve had proper family time.”
The trap snaps shut with audible finality. They have no intention of letting me leave with the information I’ve gathered. Either I’ll be drugged into compliance or eliminated entirely, but I won’t be walking out of this mansion as Belle Gallagher, federal witness.
“That sounds wonderful,” I lie, mind racing through escape scenarios. “Should I freshen up first? The drive was so long.”
“Of course, darling.” Father’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Take all the time you need. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”
I nod and back toward the door, every instinct screaming at me to run. But as I reach for the handle, Dominic’s voice stops me cold.
“Oh, Belle? Perhaps you could ask the cook to prepare something special for dessert. You know how much your father enjoys those little pills with his evening coffee. The ones that help him… forget his troubles.”
The words are a threat disguised as small talk, a reminder that they control every aspect of life in this house, including what goes into the food and drinks. My hand trembles on the door handle as the implications sink in.