Chapter 35 The Cliff’s Edge
Now
The message arrives after dinner, slipped under our door on the same cream paper Mrs. Harpsons used for this morning’s breakfast invitation.
But the handwriting is different—more hurried, less controlled: Come to the eastern cliffs.
Where Luna and Erik used to meet. Come alone. All of you. Urgent. – S.H.
“It’s not her handwriting,” Max observes, studying the note under our desk lamp. “Too shaky, too rushed. Mrs. Harpsons writes like she’s addressing wedding invitations.”
I nod, but we all know we’re going anyway.
After this morning’s revelations about the network’s reach, about her family’s connection to decades of exploitation, we need more answers than any single breakfast conversation could provide.
And if it’s a trap—well, we’ve been walking into traps for months now.
At least this time we’re walking into one together.
The eastern cliffs overlook the most treacherous part of Shark Bay’s coastline, where jagged rocks rise from churning water like broken teeth.
It’s where Luna and Erik used to meet during their courtship, where they found privacy away from the carefully orchestrated social performances that defined campus life.
The irony isn’t lost on me that we’re returning to a place associated with genuine love to potentially face the forces that have been manipulating our relationships from the shadows.
We dress carefully—dark clothes that won’t catch moonlight, shoes with good grip for potentially treacherous terrain. If this is an ambush, we won’t go down easily.
The familiar campus becomes alien in darkness, its manicured beauty twisted into something that sets my teeth on edge.
Shadows writhe beneath the canopy of old-growth trees, and every breath of wind through the leaves sounds like urgent murmurs just beyond comprehension.
The enhanced security Mrs. Harpsons mentioned is invisible but omnipresent—motion sensors that track our progress, cameras that catalog our faces, systems designed to protect or trap depending on who’s watching the feeds.
“Remember when sneaking out was about parties and hookups instead of potentially mortal danger?” Luna murmurs as we navigate the winding path toward the cliffs. Her voice carries dark humor, but underneath it lurks the same tension that coils through all of us.
“I don’t think any of us ever got to be normal teenagers,” Erik replies. “Even before we knew about the network, our lives were too controlled, too orchestrated for genuine rebellion.”
He’s right. Despite our troubled nature, we were raised to be perfect children, molded for purposes we didn’t understand until it was almost too late. The irony is that our training in deception and surveillance might be the only thing keeping us alive now.
We’re forced single-file as the trail narrows toward the drop-off, and I instinctively take the lead.
Years of Dominic’s paranoid training kick in as I scan for threats lurking in the black spaces between moonbeams. The sound of Max’s footsteps behind me becomes a lifeline—proof that in a world built on lies and manipulation, his loyalty remains the one truth I can trust.
The thunder of waves battering stone amplifies with every stride, while salt-laden wind slices through our clothing with surgical precision.
Here, the island drops its carefully constructed mask—revealing not the polished elegance of sculpted grounds and soaring spires, but something primal and hungry that could erase us as easily as breathing.
“There,” Erik breathes, pointing toward a figure silhouetted against the moonlight near the cliff’s edge.
But as we approach, something feels wrong. The silhouette is too tall, too broad-shouldered to be Mrs. Harpsons. And there’s something in the figure’s stance—predatory stillness that makes my skin crawl with recognition.
“That’s not her,” Luna whispers, but we all already know.
The figure turns as we approach, moonlight revealing features I hoped never to see again.
Dominic Griffiths stands at the cliff’s edge like he owns it, his expensive suit immaculate despite everything he’s endured since escaping federal custody.
And in his right hand, the gun that’s pointed directly at our hearts.
“Hello, children,” he says, his voice carrying the same silky menace I remember from childhood gatherings. “I’ve missed you.”
My blood turns to arctic water, but training takes over.
I position myself slightly in front of Max, calculating angles and escape routes while keeping my expression neutral.
Behind me, I can feel Luna and Erik shifting into defensive positions—subtle movements that speak to shared understanding of danger.
“Dominic,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “Shouldn’t you be in hiding?”
His laugh is like breaking glass. “That’s for people who don’t have friends in interesting places. Did you really think your little wire would end this? That bringing down the Queens and your parents would somehow make you safe?”
“We hoped,” Erik says carefully, his protective instincts radiating tension. “People like you were supposed to be finished.”
“People like me?” Dominic’s smile is sharp enough to cut. “Boy, I’m not 'people like me.’ I’m exactly me—the one who’s been cleaning up network messes for twenty years, the one who’s been tasked with resolving the particular problem you four represent.”
The gun never wavers as he speaks, held with the casual competence of someone who’s used it many times before.
There’s nowhere to run—the cliff drops into churning water forty feet below, the path back to campus is narrow and exposed, and Dominic has positioned himself perfectly to control our options.
“You know what I find fascinating?” he continues, beginning to pace along the cliff’s edge like a professor delivering a lecture.
“How thoroughly you’ve all been played. Every choice you thought you made independently, every ally you believed you’d found, every safe house you discovered—all of it orchestrated by The Architect’s grand design. ”
“Bullshit,” Luna snaps, but I can hear uncertainty creeping into her voice.
“Is it? Tell me, Luna—when you decided to return to Shark Bay after your parents’ trial, was that your idea?
Or did someone suggest it might be therapeutic to face your past?
” His pale eyes glitter with malicious amusement.
“And Belle, when you chose to go after The Architect instead of simply disappearing with your grandmother’s inheritance, what made you think fighting was better than running? ”
The questions hit like physical blows because they echo doubts I’ve been carrying for months. How much of our rebellion has been genuine, and how much has been carefully guided by invisible hands?
“The boat yesterday,” Max says, understanding dawning in his voice. “Our rescue at sea—”
“Was perfectly timed, wasn’t it? Just when hypothermia was about to claim you, Selena Harpsons appeared like an angel of mercy.
” Dominic’s smile grows wider. “Did you never wonder how she found you in the middle of a storm with no functioning radio? How she knew exactly where to look? The guard who reported it to her was one of our men. The Architect has been planning your destruction since the moment you were born—not as punishment for betraying the network, but as the grand finale of an operation that began with your grandmother’s escape decades ago. ”
The mention of my grandmother makes something cold crawl up my spine. “What does she have to do with this?”
“Everything.” Dominic steps closer, the gun never wavering.
“Margaret Gallagher wasn’t just The Architect’s intended bride—she was his chosen successor.
When she fled, when she tried to build a life outside the network’s control, she unknowingly began a generational game of chess that’s finally reaching its conclusion. ”
“You’re talking in riddles,” Erik says, but his voice carries the strain of someone trying to project confidence while facing a loaded weapon.
“Then let me be clearer. Your grandmother gathered intelligence, accumulated wealth, built networks of her own—all in preparation for a war against The Architect. But what she never understood is that her rebellion was anticipated, even encouraged. Every move she made, every resource she gathered, every safeguard she established—it all strengthened the very system she thought she was fighting.”
The world tilts around me as fragments of my grandmother’s letter flash through my memory. Her confidence that the money would help me disappear or fight back. Her detailed intelligence about network operations. Her certainty that patterns repeat and sins echo through generations.
“She was feeding information to The Architect all along,” I breathe, the realization stealing my breath.
“Not consciously. But monitored, guided, shaped into becoming exactly the weapon needed to bring you all together in one place.” Dominic’s expression carries something approaching sympathy.
“Your grandmother loved you, Belle. Her desire to protect you was genuine. But love makes people predictable, and predictable people can be controlled.”
Max’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his touch the only thing anchoring me to sanity as everything I believed about my family’s resistance crumbles around me.
“So what now?” Luna asks, her voice carrying the steel that once made her the most dangerous student at Shark Bay. “You kill us all, make it look like an accident, eliminate the last witnesses to your network’s crimes?”
“Oh, we’re well past the point of making things look accidental,” Dominic replies with genuine amusement.
“Four students driven to suicide by the trauma of their testimonies? Found together at the cliffs where young love once blossomed? Tragic but understandable given the public shame their families have brought upon them.”
The casual cruelty in his voice—the way he speaks about our deaths like items on a business agenda—ignites something primal in my chest. Rage that burns away fear, determination that transcends self-preservation.
“The only problem with that plan,” I say, taking a step forward despite the gun trained on my heart, “is that we’re not ashamed of our testimonies. We’re proud of them.”
“Pride is a luxury you can’t afford anymore,” Dominic says, but something in his posture suggests my defiance has caught him off guard. “The network’s patience has limits, and yours have been exceeded.”
“The network’s patience?” Erik laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. “You mean The Architect’s patience. Tell me, Dominic—when was the last time you actually spoke to this mysterious figure? When did you last receive direct orders instead of messages filtered through intermediaries?”
For the first time since revealing himself, Dominic hesitates. It’s barely perceptible, just a fraction of a second where his confident facade wavers, but it’s enough to suggest Erik’s question has hit something vital.
“The Architect’s methods are not your concern,” Dominic says, but the smoothness has gone out of his voice.
“Because The Architect doesn’t exist anymore,” Luna says suddenly, playing on Dominic’s doubts. “Or never existed the way you think. You’re taking orders from someone who’s been dead for years, following scripts written by a ghost.”
Before Dominic can respond, before any of us can process the implications of Luna’s revelation, a gunshot splits the night air with violent finality.
Dominic’s expression shifts from surprise to confusion to something approaching peace as he crumples to the ground, the weapon falling from nerveless fingers to clatter against the rocks. Blood spreads dark against his white shirt, and his pale eyes stare sightlessly at the stars above.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” a voice says from the shadows behind us.
We spin as one to see Mrs. Harpsons emerging from the darkness, a smoking pistol held with the same steady competence she brings to administrative duties. Her silver hair gleams in the moonlight, and her expression carries the weight of someone who’s just made an irreversible choice.
“Mrs. Harpsons—” I start, but she cuts me off with a gentle smile.
“Selena, please. I think we’re past the point of formalities.” She moves to check Dominic’s pulse with clinical efficiency, confirming what we already know. “He’s been hunting you for months. It was only a matter of time before he cornered you somewhere the Federal Marshals couldn’t intervene.”
“You’ve been protecting us,” Max says, wonder and relief warring in his voice.
“I’ve been trying to. Sometimes that requires making choices that administrative training doesn’t prepare you for.” Selena secures the pistol in her jacket with practiced ease. “But yes—Dominic Griffiths will not be harming any more children.”
The enormity of what just happened crashes over me like the waves below. Mrs. Harpsons—Selena—just committed murder to save our lives. She’s crossed a line that can never be uncrossed, made herself complicit in violence that will haunt her forever.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words inadequate for what she’s given us.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she replies, her expression growing grim. “Dominic was right about one thing—this has all been orchestrated by forces larger than any of us understood. But Luna was wrong about who’s really pulling the strings.”
“What do you mean?” Erik asks.
“I mean The Architect isn’t dead, isn’t a ghost, and isn’t some shadowy figure from decades past.” Selena’s pale eyes meet mine with absolute certainty.
“The Architect is very much alive, very much present, and closer than any of us realized. And now that Dominic’s eliminated, they’ll have to reveal themselves to complete whatever plan has been unfolding since your grandmother first tried to escape their influence. ”
Gusts sharpen to blade-edge, thick with ocean spray and the relentless drumbeat of waves against granite. Along the horizon, storm clouds gather like an approaching army, lightning flickering in their depths—as if the very elements conspire to push us beyond our breaking point.
But standing here on the cliffs where Luna and Erik once found love amidst manipulation, where we’ve just witnessed both murder and salvation, I feel the certainty that we’re finally approaching the truth.