Epilogue Fragments of Memory
The soft clicking of keyboards fills Professor Austin’s computer science classroom as afternoon sunlight streams through the tall Gothic windows, casting everything in golden light that should feel peaceful but somehow doesn’t.
One week has passed since Dominic’s death on the cliffs, one week of pretending to be normal students attending normal classes while secretly planning the downfall of a network that’s shaped our entire lives.
I sit in my usual spot—third row, center—my laptop open to what appears to be coding exercises but is actually a secure document where I’ve been cataloging everything we’ve learned about The Architect’s operations.
The familiar weight of academic performance settles around me like a comfortable mask, and for brief moments, I can almost believe we’re just Belle Gallagher and Max Brooks, college students worrying about grades instead of survival.
“The beauty of recursive functions,” Professor Austin explains, his voice carrying the enthusiasm of someone genuinely passionate about his subject, “is that they solve complex problems by breaking them into smaller, identical pieces. Each iteration brings us closer to the solution.”
I nod along with the appropriate academic interest, but my attention keeps drifting toward the window where the eastern cliffs are visible in the distance.
The same cliffs where Selena saved our lives, where Dominic’s blood still stains the rocks despite the cleaning crews she sent.
The same cliffs where Luna and Erik once found stolen moments of genuine affection amidst all the performance and manipulation.
Max sits beside me, his presence warm and reassuring as he engages with the lesson.
His dark hair catches the afternoon light, and when he glances over with that small smile that’s become my anchor, I feel something dangerously close to contentment.
We’ve been sleeping deeply these past few nights—real sleep, not the fitful half-consciousness of people constantly listening for threats.
Selena’s protection has given us something we never thought possible: peace.
Luna occupies her favorite spot by the window, her emerald eyes focused on her screen but occasionally drifting toward Erik, who sits next to her. They’ve found something real amidst all the artificial connections our families forced on us.
“Miss Gallagher,” Professor Austin’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts. “Perhaps you could walk us through the logic of your recursive solution?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring out the window for several minutes without processing anything about the assignment. Heat crawls up my neck as I focus on my screen, but the code swimming before my eyes suddenly feels meaningless compared to the view beyond the glass.
Those cliffs. Something about the way the sunlight hits the rocks, the angle of the shadows falling across the grass…
Flash.
Darkness. The scent of expensive perfume and something metallic that makes my stomach turn. Voices arguing in hushed tones while I stand frozen, my body not responding to my mind’s desperate commands to move, to run, to do anything other than witness what’s unfolding before me.
Janet Wilson lies on the ground, her dress torn and stained with something dark. Her face is pale in the moonlight, eyes staring sightlessly at the stars above. She’s so young. Was so young.
I’m standing over her body, my dress splattered with evidence I don’t remember acquiring. My parents flank me like guards, Father’s hand heavy on my shoulder while Mother’s manicured fingers grip my other arm.
“This is what happens,” Father says, his voice carrying the cold authority I’ve learned to fear, “when daughters forget their place in the natural order.”
On the other side of Janet’s body, Sebastian and Eleanor Queen observe with the clinical detachment of scientists examining a specimen.
Sebastian’s pale eyes hold no emotion as he studies my face, cataloging my reaction for future reference.
Eleanor’s perfect composure never wavers, even in the presence of death.
“The sedation was too heavy,” another voice observes from the shadows. Deep, measured, carrying absolute authority. “She couldn’t participate meaningfully in the final moments. I just hope her father understands the message.”
My blood turns to ice water as the speaker steps into the moonlight, revealing features I know as well as my own reflection. The same cat-eyed glasses, the same silver hair perfectly styled despite the late hour, the same posture that commands respect from students and faculty alike.
Mrs. Harpsons. Selena.
“No matter,” she continues, her voice carrying the same maternal warmth she’s shown me these past weeks.
“Clean this up and make sure Belle’s DNA is all over her.
Her fingerprints on the jewelry, blood under her fingernails.
When the memory alteration is complete, she’ll carry enough guilt to ensure decades of compliance.
And if not, we can always blackmail her. ”
The memory fragment shatters like glass against stone, leaving me gasping in my chair as Professor Austin’s concerned voice filters back into my consciousness.
“Miss Gallagher? Are you quite alright?”
I blink rapidly, trying to focus on his worried expression while my heart hammers against my ribs with sickening force. The comfortable academic atmosphere of the classroom feels suddenly oppressive, the walls closing in around me like a trap I never saw coming.
“I’m fine,” I manage, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. “Just… tired. Long night studying.”
Professor Austin nods with understanding, but Max’s dark eyes search my face with the intensity of someone who knows every micro-expression I’ve learned to control. He sees through the performance to the terror underneath, his hand finding mine under the desk with gentle pressure.
What’s wrong? his touch asks silently.
Everything, my trembling fingers respond.
The rest of the class passes in a blur of half-heard explanations and mounting dread.
I go through the motions of academic engagement while my mind races through implications that make my stomach churn.
Selena Harpsons—the woman who saved us from Dominic, who promised protection and justice, who’s been housing us in her fortress-like campus—was there the night Janet Wilson died.
Not as an investigator or a concerned authority figure, but as someone giving orders. Someone in control.
The Architect.
When Professor Austin finally dismisses the class, I remain frozen in my seat as students file out around us. Luna pauses at my desk.
“Belle? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
If only she knew how accurate that assessment is. “I need to talk to all of you. Privately. Immediately.”
Erik appears at Luna’s shoulder, his protective instincts triggered by something in my tone. “What happened?”
I look around the emptying classroom, hyperaware of the cameras positioned in the corners, the microphones that could be hidden in any surface.
Shark Bay’s enhanced security measures, which felt like protection a week ago, now feel like surveillance.
Every system designed to keep threats out could just as easily be used to monitor threats within.
“Not here,” I whisper. “Somewhere we can’t be overheard.”
Max stands, his movements carefully casual despite the tension radiating from his frame. “The old music practice rooms in the basement of the arts building. They’re soundproofed, and most students avoid them.”
We gather our things with deliberate normalcy, four friends planning to study together rather than conspirators about to uncover a betrayal that could cost us our lives.
But as we walk across the sun-dappled campus, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched from every window, every shadow, every carefully maintained garden.
The practice rooms are exactly as Max described—small, windowless chambers designed to contain sound rather than let it escape.
The one we choose smells like old wood and forgotten melodies, with a battered piano that’s probably older than the university itself.
I wait until the door closes behind us before allowing my carefully maintained composure to crack.
“Selena is The Architect,” I say without preamble, the words falling into the silence like stones into still water.
Luna’s expression doesn’t change for several heartbeats, but I see the moment understanding dawns—the way her eyes widen slightly, the barely perceptible intake of breath. Erik moves instinctively closer to her, while Max’s hand finds the small of my back with protective certainty.
“That’s impossible,” Erik says finally. “She saved us from Dominic. She’s been protecting us, helping us plan our investigation—”
“She’s been controlling us,” I interrupt, my voice growing stronger with each word.
“Just like she’s controlled everything else since the moment we set foot on this island.
Erik, think about it—how did she find us in that storm?
How did she know exactly where to look when our boat was disabled in the middle of the ocean? ”
“You think she arranged it,” Luna says quietly, her analytical mind already processing the implications. “The sabotage, the rescue, all of it.”
“I know she arranged it.” I close my eyes, forcing myself to relive the memory fragment that’s been clawing at my consciousness. “I remembered something during class. A piece of that night when Janet Wilson died.”
The words pour out of me like poison finally being purged—Selena’s presence at the murder scene, her orders about contaminating me with evidence, her casual discussion of memory alteration as if it were routine maintenance. My friends listen in horrified silence as I describe my recovered memory.