Chapter 9 Professor’s Confession – Belle
The stack of graded homework lands on my desk with a soft thump, pulling me from my pretend concentration on Professor Austin’s lecture about database security.
Ironic, considering what I suspect he’s actually teaching us—that no database is ever truly secure, that every system has vulnerabilities, that the watchers can always be watched.
“Good work on the encryption assignment, Miss Gallagher,” he says, his voice perfectly neutral, perfectly professional. But his fingers tap that erratic pattern against his leg as he moves to the next student, and I know. Something’s happening.
My heart stutters in my chest.
I palm it quickly, sliding it into my blazer pocket before anyone can notice. Max is sitting next to me, pretending to review his own returned work, but I catch his eye for just a second. He saw. The slight nod he gives me confirms it.
The rest of class drags on for an eternity.
Austin lectures about SQL injection attacks and the importance of sanitizing user inputs.
I take notes like a diligent student while my mind races.
What’s on the drive? Evidence against Selena?
Proof of the surveillance network? A trap designed to see if I’ll take the bait?
That last thought makes my stomach turn. What if this is Selena’s test? What if Austin is working for her, and this entire thing is designed to expose me?
But no. I remember the fear in his eyes.
The way Selena threatened him, reminded him of all the ways she could destroy his life if he stepped out of line.
Austin is scared, yes, but he’s also trying to help.
I have to believe that. I have to trust someone, even though trust has only ever gotten me hurt.
But he was the one who helped Luna break her chains. He was the first adult she could count on. Maybe, he can be the same for me now.
When class finally ends, I gather my things with deliberate slowness. Students file out around me, chattering about weekend plans and upcoming exams. Max lingers near the door, waiting without being obvious about it. As I pass Austin’s desk, he looks up.
“Miss Gallagher, a moment?”
I stop, aware of Max tensing by the door. “Yes, Professor?”
“Your code was solid overall, but you need to be more careful about leaving backdoors.” His eyes meet mine, intense and urgent. “Even unintentional vulnerabilities can be exploited. Once someone finds a way in, they can access everything.”
The double meaning is clear. Be careful. Watch for surveillance. Assume everything can be monitored.
“I understand,” I say. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”
“See that you are.” He glances toward the door, toward Max, then back to me. His voice drops even lower. “Some systems auto-purge after access. Copy what you need quickly.”
Auto-delete. The files will destroy themselves. I have one chance to view whatever he’s giving me.
“Thank you, Professor.”
I walk out before he can say anything else, before my shaking hands can betray the terror coursing through me. Max falls into step beside me, and we maintain careful silence until we’re outside, heading toward the library.
“What did he give you?” Max murmurs, his lips barely moving.
“Thumb drive. He says the files will auto-delete after I access them.”
“Fuck. When are you going to look?”
“Now. Library study rooms. Less suspicious than going back to the dorm in the middle of the day.”
We change course, heading for the library’s third floor, where the private study rooms are located.
The space is designed for group projects, with small enclosed rooms that have doors with windows.
Privacy, but not too much. Enough that we can claim we needed quiet to work, not so much that being here together raises eyebrows.
Room 3C is empty. Max checks the hallway while I slip inside, pulling out my laptop before the door even fully closes. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to plug in the thumb drive.
A window pops up immediately. Password protected. Of course it is.
I stare at the prompt, my mind racing. What would Austin use? It has to be something I’d figure out, but Selena wouldn’t. Something—
Luna.
I type it quickly. The screen flickers, and suddenly I’m looking at a directory of files. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all with cryptic names like “SH_2019_10_14” and “Archive_Founder_Hall_2021.”
“Jesus Christ,” Max breathes beside me, staring at the screen. “Is that—”
“Surveillance footage.” My voice sounds hollow. “He hacked into Selena’s system. Downloaded everything he could.”
I click on the first file randomly. It opens in a media player, and suddenly I’m watching grainy security footage of the student lounge from what looks like last year.
Students studying, chatting, a couple making out on one of the couches.
Normal activity. Except someone has been watching it, recording it, cataloging it.
The next file is similar—dining hall footage, students eating dinner. The one after that shows the inside of a dorm room. A girl I don’t recognize is changing clothes, completely unaware she’s being filmed.
My stomach turns. “She’s watching everything. Every room, every space. There’s nowhere…”
“Keep going,” Max says urgently. “Austin said to copy what we need quickly. We don’t have time to watch it all.”
He’s right. I start opening files faster, trying to understand the naming system, looking for anything that might be evidence rather than just surveillance. The dates go back years—2023, 2022, 2021. How long has Selena been doing this?
Then I see a file that makes my blood run cold: “Gallagher_Archive_2015.”
2015.
I would have been eleven years old.
My finger hovers over the trackpad, trembling. Do I want to see this? Do I want to know what else has been hidden from me, what other memories have been buried or altered or erased?
“Belle?” Max’s hand covers mine. “You don’t have to—”
“I do.” I click.
The video quality is better than the recent surveillance footage, as if it was filmed with an actual camera rather than hidden equipment.
It shows an outdoor setting—manicured lawns, a mansion in the background, adults in expensive clothing chatting and drinking. A garden party, elegant and refined.
And children. God, so many children.
They’re playing on the lawn, laughing, their voices high and bright.
A birthday party, maybe, or some kind of family gathering.
One little girl catches my attention—blonde hair in perfect ringlets, wearing a white dress with blue ribbons.
She’s laughing at something another child said, her face open and happy and unbearably young.
It takes me a moment to recognize myself.
I watch young Belle run across the lawn, playing tag with other children I don’t recognize.
My parents are in the background, my father in his usual suit, my mother wearing pearls and that cold smile she reserved for public appearances.
They’re talking to other adults, networking, playing their roles in whatever conspiracy was brewing even then.
Then someone else enters the frame, and my breath catches.
Selena Harpsons.
She’s younger in the video—maybe in her forties instead of sixties—but unmistakable with that silver hair and those pale eyes. She’s wearing a sundress instead of her usual suits, looking almost maternal as she kneels on the lawn.
Young Belle runs toward her, arms outstretched, and Selena catches her in a warm hug.
The embrace lasts several seconds, Selena’s hand stroking my hair, my younger self’s face pressed against her shoulder.
When they pull apart, Selena says something that makes young Belle giggle, then presses a kiss to her forehead.
My parents are watching this interaction with approval. My father actually smiles—a real smile, not the calculated one he uses for business. My mother nods, like Selena hugging their daughter is exactly what should be happening.
“Belle?” Max’s voice sounds distant. “Belle, are you okay?”
I can’t answer. Can’t breathe. Can’t process what I’m seeing.
Selena has been in my life since I was a child. Not just as the headmistress of the school my parents sent me to, but as someone my family knew, someone I knew. That hug wasn’t the awkward embrace of a stranger meeting a child for the first time. It was comfortable, familiar, and affectionate.
Which means I knew her. Which means somewhere in my damaged, manipulated memory, there are more buried moments with Selena Harpsons that I can’t access.
How deep does this go? How long has she been pulling strings in my life?
“I don’t remember,” I whisper. “Max, I don’t remember any of this. Not the party, not Selena being there, not… any of it.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his hand tight on my shoulder. “What else did they make you forget?”
The question hangs in the air between us, terrifying in its implications. If they could erase Selena’s presence from my childhood, what else is missing? What other people, events, traumas have been cut out of my memory like tumors?
I force myself to close the video, to keep looking. There has to be more. Austin wouldn’t risk giving me this unless there was something crucial here.
I find it three files later: a text document simply titled “READ_THIS_FIRST.txt”
My hand trembles as I open it.
Belle,
I don’t know if you’ll trust me after everything. I don’t know if you should. But if you’re reading this, then you took the drive, which means you’re either brave or desperate. Probably both.
What I’m about to tell you will sound like paranoia. Six months ago, I would have thought I was paranoid too. But I’ve been watching. Collecting evidence. Trying to understand the true scope of what’s happening on this island.