Chapter 8 The First Probe – Luna
The email from Selena arrives at exactly nine in the morning, sandwiched between a reminder about tomorrow’s Advanced Literature essay and a spam message about campus laundry services.
Subject line: Weekly Check-In.
Not a request. Never a request with Selena Harpsons.
I stare at my laptop screen, the cursor blinking in the search bar where I’d been looking up ferry schedules to the mainland.
Erik’s still in the shower, the sound of running water muffled through the bathroom door.
We’re in my old room—the one I used to share with Belle before everything went to hell and came back around again.
The space feels different now, haunted by memories of who I used to be.
The girl who thought she could control everything through sex and manipulation.
The girl who hadn’t yet learned that sometimes the only control you have is choosing how you survive.
I close the laptop before Erik can see what I was researching.
He’s been watching me carefully these past few days, ever since Belle managed to communicate her suspicions about Selena through those coded book annotations.
He thinks I’m spiraling, maybe even having a breakdown.
And maybe I am. But I’m also testing the walls of our cage, looking for weaknesses, trying to understand exactly how trapped we are.
The Queens taught me many things, most of them terrible. But they also taught me how to play the long game, how to smile while gathering intelligence, and how to make people underestimate you so they’ll reveal things they shouldn’t.
Selena Harpsons is about to learn that she’s not the only one who knows how to manipulate.
***
At 1:58 PM, I present myself at the administrative building.
The Gothic architecture looms around me, all stone gargoyles and leaded glass windows that make everything feel like it’s from another century.
Students pass me in the hallways, laughing about weekend plans, complaining about Professor Bennet’s impossible exams. Normal university concerns. Normal lives.
I hate them all a little bit for not knowing. For walking around this island, thinking they’re safe when really they’re just more specimens in Selena’s collection.
Victoria Charlson sits at the desk outside Selena’s office, the same assistant who I now know has been following Belle. She looks up as I approach, her professional smile never quite reaching her eyes.
“Miss Queen. Mrs. Harpsons is expecting you.” She gestures toward the heavy oak door. “Go right in.”
The office hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, a massive desk, and windows overlooking the cliffs where Selena supposedly saved us from Dominic. Where she killed him right in front of us to cement our trust.
Selena sits behind her desk, silver hair perfectly styled, cat-eyed glasses catching the afternoon light. She’s wearing one of her usual skirt suits—this one navy blue—and that platinum ring with the shark tooth design glints on her finger as she gestures to the chair across from her.
“Luna, dear. Thank you for coming.” Her voice is warm, almost maternal. The voice of someone who genuinely cares about my well-being. “Please, sit. Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you.” I settle into the chair, crossing my legs, noting how the leather is worn smooth from decades of students sitting in this exact spot. How many of them left this office thinking they’d found an ally? How many never realized they were talking to a predator?
“I wanted to check in on how you’re adjusting.
” Selena leans back in her chair, studying me with those pale eyes that seem to see everything.
“I know you’re dealing with traumatic circumstances—the failed attempt on David Stone’s life, being hunted by what remained of the network. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
“I’m managing.” I keep my voice steady, my expression neutral. Luna Queen, survivor, the girl who testified against her own parents. Strong. Resilient. Exactly what she expects to see. “It’s strange being back, but also comforting. Familiar, you know?”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Shark Bay has always been meant as a sanctuary.” Her fingers drum lightly on the desk. “Though I imagine it must feel somewhat… confining at times. After months of living on the mainland, the island’s borders might feel restrictive.”
There it is. The opening I’ve been waiting for.
I let a small sigh escape, glancing toward the window.
“Actually, I was thinking about that this morning. My therapist—Dr. Marshall, back in New York—we’ve been doing video sessions, but she thinks it would be beneficial for me to have some in-person appointments.
Especially with the trial coming up for the remaining network members.
” I turn back to Selena, meeting her gaze directly.
“I was wondering if it would be possible to arrange trips to the mainland? Maybe once a week? I know the ferries run regularly.”
The temperature in the room drops by several degrees.
Selena’s smile doesn’t waver—it’s still warm, still concerned—but something shifts in her eyes. A hardness that’s there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“I understand the appeal,” she says slowly, her hand moving to rest on the desk.
I watch as her fingers curl, knuckles whitening slightly as they press against the polished wood.
“However, I’m not sure that’s wise given the current circumstances.
The network may be dismantled. But you need to remember that there are still dangerous individuals at large.
Your testimony made you a target, Luna. The mainland offers too many opportunities for… unfortunate encounters.”
“I could have security. David could arrange—”
“David Stone has his hands full with his own recovery.” Her voice is still pleasant, but there’s steel underneath now. “And while I’m sure he means well, his resources are limited. Here, on this island, I can guarantee your safety. The moment you step onto that ferry, that guarantee evaporates.”
I let disappointment show on my face. Not too much—just enough to seem like a young woman who’s been told no. “I understand. It’s just… I’ve been feeling so isolated. Like I’m hiding instead of healing.”
“Healing takes time. And sometimes it requires patience.” Selena’s hand finally relaxes, spreading flat against the desk.
“But I have a suggestion. Dr. Rachel Moore, our campus counselor, is excellent. She has extensive experience with trauma, particularly the kind you’ve endured.
I could arrange for you to meet with her. Confidentially, of course.”
“That’s very kind, but—”
“I insist.” The words are gentle, but there’s no room for argument. “In fact, why don’t I set up an appointment for you this week? Dr. Moore can assess your needs. If she feels you truly require outside support, we can discuss options then.”
It’s a masterful move. She’s acknowledged my request, offered an alternative, and placed a gatekeeper between me and any possibility of leaving the island. All while maintaining the appearance of caring about my mental health.
“Thank you,” I hear myself say. “That would be helpful.”
“Wonderful.” She taps something on her computer, probably sending Dr. Moore an email right now. “I’ll have Victoria schedule something. Now, is there anything else you need? How are your classes going? Any concerns about falling behind?”
We spend the next fifteen minutes discussing mundane things—my coursework, whether I’m sleeping well, if the dining hall food is agreeable.
Normal check-in topics. The whole time, I play the role of grateful student, nodding in the right places, expressing appropriate amounts of stress about assignments while assuring her I’m coping.
But I’m watching her too. Noting the way she keeps glancing at her computer screen, how her fingers tap that same anxious pattern Belle mentioned seeing in Professor Austin. She’s worried about something. Not about me specifically—I don’t think she suspects I know the truth—but worried nonetheless.
“I should let you get back to your afternoon,” Selena finally says, standing. I take it as my cue to leave. “Remember, Luna, my door is always open. If you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“I won’t. Thank you, Mrs. Harpsons.”
I make it to the hallway before I let myself breathe properly. Victoria Charlson is still at her desk, but she’s on the phone now, speaking in low tones. I catch fragments as I pass: “—confirmed for Thursday—” and “—yes, the usual location—”
The administrative building’s corridors are maze-like, all dark wood paneling and portraits of stern-faced founders.
I’m halfway to the exit when I realize I’ve left my jacket in Selena’s office.
Fuck. I consider leaving it, but it’s my favorite one, and besides, going back gives me an excuse to observe more.
I retrace my steps, but Victoria’s desk is empty now. The door to Selena’s office is closed. I’m about to knock when I hear voices from inside—not just Selena’s, but someone else’s. A woman’s voice I don’t recognize.
“—can’t keep them here indefinitely without raising suspicions—”
“I’m aware.” Selena’s voice is sharp, nothing like the warm tone she used with me. “But the alternative is worse. If they leave before we’ve secured the evidence—”
The voices drop too low for me to hear more. I stand frozen in the hallway, my heart hammering. Should I knock? Walk away? What would a normal student do?
Before I can decide, footsteps approach the door from inside. I quickly walk past, heading toward the stairwell, trying to look like I’m just another student going about my day. Behind me, I hear the office door open.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Moore. Thursday, then.”
“Of course, Mrs. Harpsons. I’ll review the files you sent.”