Chapter 31 Desperate Measures
Now
The coastal town of Millfield clings to the rocky shoreline like a barnacle, refusing to be scraped away by time and tide.
Max and I emerge from the tree line after another night of moving through back roads and forgotten paths, our clothes damp with morning mist, our faces etched with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from months of running from shadows.
The harbor spreads before us—a collection of weathered docks and listing boats that have seen better decades.
Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries mixing with the sound of waves slapping against hulls and the distant rumble of an approaching storm.
Dark clouds gather on the horizon, promising the kind of weather that grounds ferries and keeps sensible people indoors.
Perfect cover for the desperate.
“There,” Max says, pointing toward a figure hunched against the wind near the far end of the harbor.
Even at this distance, I recognize Erik’s tall frame, the protective way he positions himself between Luna and the rest of the world.
Relief floods through me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckle.
They made it. Despite Harper’s surveillance, despite the network’s reach, despite everything trying to tear us apart, we’re all here.
Luna turns as we approach, her dark hair whipping in the salt-laden wind. The months since our last face-to-face meeting have changed her—she looks stronger somehow, more grounded, but there’s a wariness in her emerald eyes that speaks to constant vigilance.
“Belle.” She doesn’t smile, but there’s genuine relief in her voice. “You look like hell.”
“Feel worse,” I admit, falling into the kind of honest exhaustion that only comes when you’re among people who understand the weight you’re carrying. “How long have you been here?”
“Since yesterday. We’ve been staying in a boarding house up the hill, paying cash, keeping our heads down.” Erik’s voice carries the same strained calm I remember from his testimony days. “The ferries stopped running this morning. Storm’s supposed to last at least forty-eight hours.”
I study the harbor, counting the boats that look seaworthy enough to make the crossing to Shark Bay Island. Not many, and most of those appear to be commercial fishing vessels with owners who wouldn’t sell even under normal circumstances.
“We can’t wait,” Max says, echoing the urgency I feel crawling up my spine. “Every hour we delay gives them more time to consolidate their position, to eliminate loose ends.”
“The island’s been quiet,” Luna points out, but I can see the same desperate determination in her expression that drives all of us now. “No activity that we can detect from here. But that doesn’t mean it’s empty.”
We’re tired of running, tired of looking over our shoulders, tired of letting faceless enemies control our lives from the shadows.
If answers exist anywhere, they’re on that island.
In the archives, we never had time to properly search, in the hidden spaces beneath the university buildings, in the remnants of whatever conspiracy took Janet Wilson’s life.
“There might be another option.” Erik nods toward the far end of the harbor, where a different class of boat bobs at anchor. Sleek, fast, and distinctly private. “I’ve been asking around. Carefully. There’s an old fisherman who’s looking to sell—needs the money more than the boat.”
I follow his gaze to a weathered thirty-footer that looks sturdy enough to handle rough seas. Not elegant, but functional. The kind of vessel that could get us across twenty miles of increasingly choppy water if someone knew how to operate it.
“Either of you know how to pilot a boat?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
Max and Erik exchange a look—the kind of loaded communication that passes between people who’ve been planning contingencies. “I spent summers on my uncle’s yacht in Miami,” Max says. “Erik’s got experience with smaller craft from his Coast Guard training.”
“Coast Guard?” Luna’s eyebrow arches with surprise.
“Before I was sent to Shark Bay. Two years of weekend duty after I fucked up my father’s meeting with the president’s aide.” Erik’s jaw tightens with familiar determination. “It’s been a while, but some things you don’t forget.”
“How much?” I ask, already thinking about my grandmother’s inheritance. The twenty-three million dollars that represents decades of her fighting back against the network that created us all.
“Seventy-five thousand. Cash. And he walks away clean—no questions, no paperwork, no memory of who bought it.”
Seventy-five thousand dollars. A year ago, that sum would’ve been impossible. Now, with my grandmother’s inheritance, it’s a significant expense but not a breaking point. The money that was supposed to buy my freedom might instead fund my return to the place where this nightmare began.
While Erik handles the transaction, Luna pulls me aside near the harbor’s edge, her voice low against the building wind. “Belle, there’s something I’ve been wondering.”
“I know, me too. We were sent to Shark Bay for a reason.”
Luna nods, the confirmation hitting us like a physical blow.
“Luna, when your parents decided to send you there after the Alex situation, who made the final school selection?”
Luna’s face goes pale. “The family’s academic advisor. But the decision went through several levels of approval, including consultation with what they called ‘network educational liaisons.’”
“And my placement there was presented as a strategic opportunity to monitor promising heirs from other families.” I finish the thought, seeing the same horrible understanding dawn in her eyes. “We weren’t sent to Shark Bay despite the dangers lurking there. We were sent there because of them.”
Erik returns, keys jingling in his weathered hand. “It’s done. The boat’s ours, along with rain gear and life vests the previous owner threw in. He’s already walking away—cash in pocket, conscience clear.”
“When do we leave?” I ask.
“Now. The storm’s moving faster than predicted, and we want to reach the island before the worst of it hits.” Erik’s eyes meet mine, and I see my own determination reflected there. “Belle, you understand that once we get on that boat, there’s no backing out. Whatever’s waiting for us at Shark Bay—”
“I know.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “But running hasn’t worked. Hiding hasn’t worked. The only way to end this is to face it.”
We gather our few possessions and walk toward our newly acquired vessel. The boat looks even more weathered up close, but the hull appears sound, and the engine turns over with a reassuring rumble when Erik tests the ignition.
As we board, I run my hand along the interior railing, feeling for any irregularities in the wood. My fingers find it almost immediately—carved so small and discreet that it would be invisible unless you were specifically looking.
The same serpent wrapped around a crown that’s followed us like a curse.
They know. Whatever forces have been orchestrating this dance from the shadows, they know about our desperation, our need to return to the island. Even this boat, purchased from what seemed like a random fisherman, bears their mark.
I should warn the others. Should point out this evidence that nothing we encounter is truly random. But looking at Luna’s determined expression, at Erik’s protective stance, at Max’s unwavering support, I realize it doesn’t matter.
We’re done running. Done reacting. Done letting invisible hands guide our choices.
If they want us on Shark Bay Island, if they’ve arranged for us to return to the scene of our mutual creation, then let’s give them exactly what they’re expecting.
Just not in the way they planned.
“Everyone ready?” Max calls from the helm, his hands already familiarizing themselves with the controls.
I meet his eyes, seeing that his resolve matches mine. Luna nods sharply, her jaw set with the same steel that helped her survive years of family exploitation. Erik’s expression carries the weight of someone who’s lost too much to back down now.
“Ready,” I say, and the word tastes like a promise.
The engine roars to life, and we pull away from the relative safety of Millfield’s harbor.
Behind us, the storm continues building, dark clouds pregnant with rain and wind and electrical fury.
Ahead, Shark Bay Island rises from the gray waters like something from a Gothic nightmare, its ancient towers and collegiate spires promising answers we might not survive discovering.
But as salt spray stings my face and the deck pitches beneath my feet, I feel something I haven’t experienced in months: anticipation instead of dread.
Whatever’s waiting for us on that island—The Architect, the completion of plans that began with Janet Wilson’s murder, the final confrontation with forces that have shaped our entire lives—we’re going to meet it on our own terms.
The girl who survived by becoming her father’s perfect spy is gone. The woman taking her place has her grandmother’s intelligence network, her friends’ unwavering support, her grandmother’s twenty-three million dollar war chest, and absolutely nothing left to lose.
The storm can come. We’re ready for it.
And when we reach that island, we’re going to discover once and for all who’s been writing the script of our lives—and we’re going to burn that script to ash.