Chapter 24 Hidden Threats
Now
The morning air bites at my exposed skin as I round the final curve of the coastal path, my breathing steady despite the burn in my lungs.
Running has become my meditation over the past few months—the rhythmic pounding of my feet against the worn stone, the salt spray from the waves below, the way the Gothic spires of Shark Bay University emerge from the morning mist like something from a dream.
Or a nightmare, depending on the day.
I slow to a walk as I approach the main campus, using my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
The familiar weight of paranoia settles on my shoulders as I scan the grounds, looking for anything out of place.
It’s been three weeks since the boat incident, three weeks since we discovered that symbol carved into the hull.
Detective Harper assured us we were safe, that the increased security presence would deter any threats, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched.
“Belle, dear!”
I turn to see the school’s director, Selena Harpsons, approaching from the direction of the administration building, her silver hair perfectly styled despite the early hour.
The school’s director has always been an imposing figure—tall, elegant, with the kind of natural authority that comes from decades of managing entitled rich kids and their equally entitled parents.
Today, she’s wearing a charcoal blazer that complements her cat-eyed glasses, every inch the successful academic administrator.
“Good morning, Mrs. Harpsons,” I say, forcing my breathing to return to normal. “You’re up early.”
“As are you.” Her smile is warm but assessing, the way it’s been since my return to campus after the trial. “How are you settling back in? I know it’s been nine months, but transitions such as yours aren’t easy.”
That’s putting it mildly. Returning to Shark Bay after testifying against my parents, after having my entire life dissected in federal court, feels like walking through a minefield of whispered conversations and sideways glances.
Some students treat me like a tragic figure deserving of sympathy.
Others act like I’m a ticking time bomb who might explode at any moment.
“Better than expected,” I lie smoothly. “The routine helps. Classes, studying, normal college things.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She adjusts her glasses, and I catch a glint of metal in her hand. “Your professors speak highly of your academic performance. Remarkable, considering everything you’ve endured.”
The ring on her finger draws my attention—platinum, with an unusual design that makes my pulse quicken. A distinctive tooth-like shape that seems familiar, though I can’t place where I’ve seen it before. Something about it sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the morning air.
“Thank you.” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady. “I find focusing on my studies helps me… process everything.”
“Trauma has a way of reshaping us.” She observes, her pale eyes studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “The key is ensuring we’re reshaped into something stronger rather than something broken.”
There’s something in her tone that makes me want to step back, but I hold my ground. “I’m working on it. Therapy helps.”
“Of course.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Belle, I want you to know that you have my full support. What your parents did—what they put you through—it’s unforgivable. You showed tremendous courage in testifying against them. And the Queens.”
The words should comfort me, but they feel hollow somehow. Like a performance rather than genuine compassion. “I just told the truth.”
“The truth is often the hardest thing to speak.” She glances at her watch—an expensive piece worth more than most people’s cars. “I should let you get back to your morning routine. But Belle? If you ever need anything—anything at all—my door is always open.”
She walks away before I can respond, her heels clicking against the stone pathway with military precision. I watch her retreat, that strange ring catching the light as she gestures to a groundskeeper, and try to shake the uneasy feeling settling in my chest.
The feeling follows me back to Pemberton Hall, clinging like fog as I climb the stairs to my room. I’m still thinking about Selena’s penetrating stare, about the way she spoke about trauma and reshaping, when I round the corner to find Max leaning against my door.
“There’s my runner,” he says, straightening with that lazy smile that never fails to make my pulse skip. He’s holding two coffee cups, steam rising from the lids in the cool morning air. “Perfect timing.”
The sight of him—rumpled hair, expensive sweater that probably costs more than my monthly therapy sessions, that easy confidence that used to irritate me and now makes me feel safe—instantly improves my mood. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Just a few minutes.” He offers me one of the cups, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sends warmth shooting up my arm. “Though there was a package by your door when I got here. Looked important.”
My blood turns to ice water. “A package?”
He nods toward a manila envelope propped against my doorframe, my name written across it in block letters. No return address. No postmark. Hand-delivered.
“Belle?” Max’s voice carries concern as he studies my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing good ever comes in unmarked packages,” I mutter, fumbling for my key card with suddenly unsteady hands. “Not in our world.”
We enter my room together, the familiar space feeling somehow smaller with the weight of that envelope between us. Max sets his coffee on my desk while I stare at the package like it might explode at any moment.
“Want me to open it?” he offers.
I shake my head. “No. If it’s what I think it is, we should both see it.”
My hands tremble slightly as I break the seal, my mind racing through possibilities. Another threat from the network’s remaining members? Evidence of crimes I’ve forgotten? A message from whoever’s been watching us from the shadows?
The photographs spill out first—glossy surveillance shots that make my stomach lurch. There’s Max and me walking across campus, his arm around my waist. Luna and Erik sharing coffee at that little café on Newbury Street. David Stone entering the federal building, briefcase in hand.
“Fuck,” Max breathes, studying the images. “How long have they been watching us?”
“Long enough.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears as I continue examining the photos. Each one is timestamped, dating back weeks. Whoever took these has been documenting our movements with scientific precision. “Look at the quality. This isn’t some amateur with a phone camera.”
The note underneath is handwritten on expensive stationery, the kind my mother always used for formal correspondence:
The Queens and Gallaghers were merely branches. The root remains. Your parents thought they could protect you by offering substitutes, but their sacrifice only delayed the inevitable. The network is larger than you understand, and certain debts must be paid, especially when mistakes have been made.
My hands shake as I read the words again, each one hitting like a physical blow. Substitutes. What substitutes? What debts? What mistakes?
“Belle.” Max’s voice is tight with something that might be fear. “There’s more.”
He’s right. Beneath the surveillance photos are others—crime scene images that make bile rise in my throat. Janet Wilson’s body, photographed from multiple angles with clinical precision. But it’s the close-up shots that steal my breath.
Carved into her pale skin, just above her heart, is the same symbol I’ve seen tattooed on my parents’ inner circle. The same mark we found on that boat. The same design I just saw on my run… somewhere.
“Jesus Christ,” Max whispers, his face pale as he stares at the images. “They… they marked her.”
Another handwritten note is paper-clipped to the autopsy photos:
You were meant to be next. You still are. Your parents’ cooperation bought you time, nothing more. The ritual must be completed, the circle must be closed. The punishment for failure awaits. Soon.
The room spins slightly as the implications crash over me. All this time, I thought I was being framed for Janet’s murder, that my parents had set me up to take the fall for their crimes. But the truth is so much worse.
I wasn’t meant to be the killer. I was meant to be another victim.
“This symbol,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been seeing it everywhere. The boat, my parents’ associates, and just now…”
“What? Where just now?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. But it’s so fresh in my mind that I’m certain I saw it this morning.
” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “Mrs. Harpsons stopped me during my run, wanted to chat about my ‘trauma’ and how it shapes us, and then I came here. But I can’t pinpoint where and when I saw the ring.
All those drugs they made me take throughout the years… Oh, God, Max, my mind’s a mess.”
Max’s expression darkens. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Nothing about this is coincidence.” I gather the photos with hands that won’t stop shaking. “Max, if this symbol represents some kind of inner circle, if they’re still operating…”
“Then we’re all still in danger.” He moves to the window, scanning the campus below with new wariness. “Luna, Erik, David Stone. Anyone connected to bringing down the Queens and your parents.”
I think about Luna’s text yesterday, mentioning strange hang-up calls at her apartment. Erik’s comment about feeling watched during his morning runs. David Stone’s increased security detail that I assumed was standard procedure for high-profile prosecutors.
We’re all being hunted.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from an unknown number:
Check your laptop. The truth about your parents’ protection is waiting.