Chapter 3 Silent Screams – Belle
The camera in our dorm room is hidden in the smoke detector above the door.
I’ve been staring at it for the past twenty minutes, lying on my side in bed while Max sleeps beside me, his arm draped across my waist. The detector is standard issue—white plastic casing, red indicator light that blinks every thirty seconds. Completely ordinary.
Except for the tiny lens barely visible in the vent hole on the right side.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I trace the almost-imperceptible glint of glass with my eyes. It could be nothing. It could be paranoia, my mind creating monsters where none exist because that’s what I’ve been trained to do—see threats everywhere, trust no one, assume everyone is watching.
But I don’t think it’s paranoia. Not anymore.
I’ve been paying attention these past two days since the memory crashed through my carefully constructed walls. Really paying attention, cataloging details the way I used to when I was gathering intelligence for my father. And what I’m seeing terrifies me more than anything I’ve witnessed before.
The smoke detectors all have that same tiny lens—I’ve checked three different buildings now, always carefully, never obviously.
The decorative crown molding in the hallways has small holes drilled at regular intervals.
The portraits of stern Harpsons ancestors have eyes that seem to follow you, and when I examined one in the library yesterday while pretending to admire it, I found a camera embedded in the painted iris.
Selena isn’t just watching the common areas. She’s watching everywhere. Every room, every corridor, every supposedly private space on this entire island.
We’re not in a sanctuary. We’re in a fucking panopticon.
Max shifts in his sleep, pulling me closer, and I force myself to relax against him. If they’re watching—and they definitely are—I can’t let them see me spiral. Can’t let them know I’ve figured out that this entire “safe haven” is actually the most elaborate trap we’ve walked into yet.
I think about Luna at dinner. She was so hopeful when she talked about feeling safe for the first time in years.
And Erik, the way he squeezed her hand, believing in the protection Selena promised.
About how they have no idea that every word they’ve spoken, every moment they’ve shared, every vulnerability they’ve exposed has been recorded, cataloged, and filed away for future use.
Selena has been building files on all of us. I’m certain of it. Learning our patterns, our relationships, our weaknesses. Waiting for the perfect moment to use what she knows.
The question is: What does she want? Why bring us here? Why the elaborate rescue, the promises of protection, the careful cultivation of trust? She could have killed us on that boat. Could have let Dominic do it on the cliffs. Could have made us disappear a dozen different ways.
Instead, she saved us. Brought us back to her fortress. Surrounded us with surveillance and called it safety.
Why?
Max’s breathing changes—still slow, but not quite the deep rhythm of sleep anymore. I tilt my head to look at him, finding his dark eyes open, studying me.
“Can’t sleep?” he whispers.
I shake my head, hyperaware of the camera above us. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
I lean in close, my lips nearly touching his ear. To anyone watching, it would look intimate, romantic. A girlfriend seeking comfort from her boyfriend in the middle of the night.
“Later,” I breathe, so quietly I’m barely making a sound. “Not here.”
His body tenses slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he kisses my temple, his hand sliding up to cup my cheek. When he pulls back, there’s understanding in his eyes. And fear.
He sees it too. Or at least, he trusts that I do.
“Go back to sleep,” he says at normal volume, tucking me against his chest. “Everything’s okay.”
But nothing is okay. Nothing has been okay since we set foot back on this island.
I close my eyes and pretend to drift off, counting the seconds between the smoke detector’s blinking light. Thirty seconds. Always thirty seconds. Perfectly regular, perfectly normal.
Perfectly damning.
***
Professor Austin’s office hours are Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from two to four.
I arrive at 2:52 PM, clutching my laptop and a notebook filled with half-finished code, the perfect image of a struggling student seeking help.
Other students mill around outside his office—a few waiting their turn, others just lingering in the Computer Science building’s corridor, taking advantage of the comfortable chairs and decent Wi-Fi.
I’ve chosen my timing carefully. Not too early, lest I seem overeager. Nor too late, when he might be tired or distracted. I’ve come right in the middle, when there’s enough ambient noise and activity to make our conversation seem unremarkable.
When the student before me finally emerges—a sophomore who looks relieved to be done—I knock on the partially open door.
“Miss Gallagher.” Professor Austin looks up from his computer, surprise flickering across his face before being replaced by professional courtesy. “Come in. What can I help you with?”
I step inside, leaving the door ajar exactly as the previous student did. Closing it would be suspicious. I need to appear casual, normal, just another student with academic concerns.
“I’m stuck on the encryption assignment,” I say, opening my laptop on his desk. “The asymmetric keys won’t generate properly. Keep getting errors.”
He gestures for me to sit, rolling his chair closer to examine my screen.
I’ve actually created real errors—subtle ones that a professor would notice and help fix.
The kind of mistakes a competent but not exceptional student might make.
Nothing that would indicate I’m anything other than what I appear to be.
As he scrolls through my code, pointing out where I’ve incorrectly initialized a variable, I study him carefully.
The way his fingers tap against his leg in that erratic pattern I noticed before.
How his eyes keep darting to the corners of the ceiling, where I now know cameras are hidden.
The tension in his shoulders speak of someone carrying weight they’re not supposed to acknowledge.
“Here’s your problem,” he says, highlighting a section of code. “You’re trying to generate the keys before establishing the parameters. Fix this sequence, and it should work.”
“Thank you.” I make a show of taking notes, then hesitate, as if gathering courage. “Professor Austin, can I ask you something? Off the record?”
His hand stills on the mouse. “That depends on what you’re asking.”
I choose my words with precision, aware that we could be overheard, that this entire conversation could be a test. “When you helped Luna—before, with the investigation—how did you know it was the right thing to do? How did you know who to trust?”
The silence stretches between us. He’s studying me now, really looking at me. I can see him weighing options and going through the risks.
“Luna came to me with evidence,” he says carefully.
“Concrete proof of wrongdoing that I couldn’t ignore, regardless of personal risk.
But she also…” He pauses, glancing at the ceiling again.
“She asked the right questions. Questions that showed she understood the difference between allies and enemies.”
“What if the enemy isn’t who you think it is?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “What if the person offering protection is actually the threat?”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “That’s a dangerous hypothetical, Miss Gallagher.”
“But hypothetically,” I press, “if someone found themselves in that situation, what would you advise?”
Professor Austin leans back in his chair, creating distance.
When he speaks, his voice is measured, professional.
“Hypothetically, I would advise that student to be very, very careful. To gather irrefutable evidence before making accusations. To understand that institutions—especially old, established ones—have ways of protecting themselves that most people never see.”
“And if the institution has eyes everywhere?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or confirmation.
“Then that student would need to be creative about where and how they communicate.” He pulls a sticky note from his desk, scribbling something quickly.
“My office hours are always posted on the department website. But I also maintain open lab hours in the old computer lab in the basement of Harpsons Hall—Tuesday and Thursday evenings, seven to nine. That lab is used for legacy system maintenance. The equipment down there is quite outdated.” He hands me the sticky note with what appears to be a website URL.
“Very few students know about it. Even fewer use it.”
I take the note, understanding flooding through me. The old lab. Outdated equipment. Legacy systems that probably predate the current surveillance network.
A place without cameras.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say, tucking the note into my notebook. “For the help with my code.”
“Of course. That’s what I’m here for.” He turns back to his computer, dismissing me with professional courtesy.
But just as I reach the door, he speaks again.
“Miss Gallagher? Be careful with your encryption assignment. It’s important to make sure you’re protecting the right information from the right people.
One wrong key, and everything falls apart. ”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and step out into the corridor.
My hands are shaking. My heart is racing. But I keep my expression neutral, bored even, as I make my way through the Computer Science building and out into the afternoon air.
He knows. Professor Austin knows something is wrong. And he just gave me a way to communicate safely.
Now I just have to survive long enough to use it.
***