Chapter 13 The Architect’s Collection – Belle
The knock on Selena’s office door feels like signing my own death warrant.
I force my hand to remain steady as I wait for her response.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Each beat reminds me of the memories that crashed through my carefully constructed walls just days ago.
Janet Wilson’s corpse. My parents’ hands.
And Selena’s voice, calm and authoritative, orchestrating it all.
“Come in.”
I push open the heavy oak door. The space suddenly feels less like a headmistress’s office and more like a predator’s den.
Selena sits behind her massive desk, silver hair perfectly styled, those cat-eyed glasses catching the morning light streaming through the windows.
She looks up from whatever paperwork she’s reviewing.
That warm smile spreads across her face.
The same smile that’s been fooling people for decades.
“Belle, dear. What a pleasant surprise.” She gestures to the chair across from her. “Please, take a seat. Is everything okay? Is there something I can do for you?”
I slide into the leather chair and cross my legs. I settle into playing the role of a troubled student who’s seeking guidance. It’s a part I’ve perfected over years of surviving in my family’s world. “I hope I’m not interrupting, Mrs. Harpsons. I know you’re busy.”
“Nonsense. My door is always open for my students, especially those who’ve been through what you have.” Her pale eyes study me with what appears to be genuine concern. “How are you adjusting? I imagine returning to campus after everything with your parents must be challenging.”
“That’s actually why I’m here.” I let a tremor enter my voice.
Just enough to seem vulnerable without appearing weak.
“I’m struggling to keep my mind occupied.
Every time I have a moment alone with my thoughts, I spiral back to the trial, the testimonies, everything my family did, everything they made me do.
” I pause and meet her gaze. “I was hoping you might have some work I could do. Something to keep me busy, to feel useful instead of just existing.”
Selena’s expression softens. I watch her fall for the bait exactly as I hoped.
“That’s very mature of you, Belle. Many students in your position would be wallowing in self-pity.
” She taps her fingers against the desk.
That platinum ring with the shark tooth design glints.
“As it happens, I do have a project that could use your attention. My private library has been in desperate need of cataloging. Years of accumulated volumes, many quite rare and valuable. It would be tedious work, but thorough and time-consuming.”
“That sounds perfect.” I inject enthusiasm into my voice. “I’d be grateful for the distraction.”
“Wonderful.” She stands and moves toward a door I’ve never noticed before.
It’s set into the wall behind her desk, almost invisible in the dark wood paneling.
“The library is through here. I’m afraid I have meetings this morning, but you’re welcome to work independently.
Just be careful with the older volumes. Some are quite fragile. ”
She produces a key from her pocket. The lock opens with a soft click that sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet office. As the door swings open, I catch my first glimpse of the space beyond. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with leather-bound books. The smell of old paper and dust wafts out.
“Take your time,” Selena says, stepping aside to let me enter. “I’ll check on you in a few hours. There’s a catalog system I started years ago. You’ll find it on the desk inside. Just continue where the previous student left off.”
Previous student. The words send ice through my veins, but I keep my expression neutral. “Thank you, Mrs. Harpsons. This really means a lot.”
“Of course, dear. We all need purpose, especially during difficult times.” She squeezes my shoulder as I pass.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to flinch away from her touch.
“Remember, Belle. You’re safe here. Whatever happened before, whatever your family did, you have a fresh start at Shark Bay. ”
I nod, not trusting my voice. I step into the library. The door closes behind me with a soft thud. I hear the lock click into place.
Trapped.
But that’s fine. That’s what I expected. Selena thinks she’s containing me, keeping me where she can monitor my activities. She doesn’t realize I want to be here. Every second in this space is an opportunity to find the evidence we desperately need.
The library is smaller than I expected. Maybe twenty square feet.
But every inch of wall space is covered with books.
Some look ancient, leather bindings cracked and faded.
Others are newer, their spines still crisp and unbroken.
A mahogany desk sits in the center of the room, covered in papers and an old ledger that must be the catalog Selena mentioned.
I force myself to actually start working.
There could be cameras hidden anywhere in this space.
I pick up the ledger and flip through pages of meticulous handwriting documenting titles, authors, publication dates.
Someone has spent countless hours on this project.
Probably multiple someones over the years.
My eyes scan the shelves as I work. I look for anything out of place, any sign of hidden compartments or secret passages. Gothic buildings love their hidden rooms, their concealed doorways. If Selena has secrets to hide, this private library would be the perfect place.
An hour passes. Then another. I catalog books with methodical precision. I occasionally pull volumes from the shelves to check publication information. Victorian novels, medieval histories, classic philosophy texts. Nothing unusual. Nothing incriminating.
I’m starting to think this was a waste of time when my hand brushes against a book that doesn’t move. I try to pull it from the shelf, but it won’t budge.
My heart rate spikes.
I try again, more carefully this time. The book is a leather-bound copy of Paradise Lost. It’s fixed in place. Not damaged or stuck, but deliberately secured. I press against it. Something clicks. The entire section of the shelf swings inward with a whisper of well-oiled hinges.
A hidden door.
I glance back at the library’s main entrance. I listen for any sound of Selena returning. Nothing. My hands shake as I pull the section of shelving wider. A narrow passage lies beyond.
This is it. This is what I came here to find.
The passage is dark, but there’s a light switch just inside. I flip it. Fluorescent bulbs flicker to life. They illuminate a small room that makes my blood run cold.
Photographs. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They cover every inch of wall space. They’re arranged chronologically, dated labels beneath each one. A grotesque timeline spans decades.
I step closer. My breath catches as I recognize faces.
There. A photo from what looks like the 1990s.
Children in formal wear at a garden party.
Adults in expensive suits watch them with predatory interest. I scan the young faces.
My stomach lurches when I spot a girl who looks eerily like Luna.
The date says 1998. Years before Luna was born. Her mother, maybe? Or an aunt?
Another section shows more recent photos.
There’s Luna herself at maybe thirteen. She’s wearing a white dress with blue ribbons.
She’s surrounded by adults I recognize from my parents’ parties.
And there. Oh God. There I am at eleven, smiling at the camera with an innocence that makes me want to vomit.
I remember that dress. I remember my mother fussing over my hair.
But I don’t remember the party. I don’t remember who took that photo or why.
I force myself to keep looking, to document everything. I pull out the small camera Max gave me. It’s disguised as a tube of lipstick. I start photographing the walls. Flash after flash captures the evidence of decades of abuse. Children exploited at parties like the ones my parents hosted.
But it’s not just party photos. As I move deeper into the room, I find something else.
School photos. Yearbook pictures from Shark Bay University dating back to the 1970s.
Candid shots of students in classrooms, dining halls, dorm rooms. Each photo is annotated with notes in tight, precise handwriting.
“Subject 47. Responded well to conditioning. Recruited successfully.”
“Subject 89. Required additional intervention. Father proved cooperative after demonstration.”
“Subject 112. Unsuitable. Removed.”
Removed. The word echoes in my mind, sinister and final.
I photograph everything. My hands move on autopilot while my brain tries to process what I’m seeing.
Shark Bay isn’t just where victims are sent after parties.
It’s where they’re controlled afterward.
Where the network keeps them compliant when bits and pieces of trauma start surfacing.
When they begin to remember what was done to them.
Send your troubled child to Shark Bay, where they’ll be “rehabilitated.” Where their inconvenient memories will be managed. Where they’ll either be broken into compliance or “removed” if they prove too difficult.
How many students currently enrolled here are connected to the network?
How many were sent here because their families needed them controlled, silenced, kept from painting a black dot on their pristine names?
Is that the real requirement for admission?
Not academic excellence or family wealth, but having secrets that need burying?
I think about Leyla with her cheerful smile and her mafia family connections. About the other students I’ve dismissed as vapid rich kids. How many of them are victims? How many are being groomed as future perpetrators? How many are both?
My camera flash illuminates another section of photos. I freeze.
Max.
He’s younger in the photo. Maybe fourteen. He’s standing with his father at what looks like a business dinner. The annotation reads: “Brooks family. Peripheral member. Son shows potential for recruitment. Monitor.”
They’ve been watching him for years. Cataloging him. Planning his role in their network.
Does he know? Has he ever suspected?
I keep photographing. I work faster now. I’m desperate to capture every piece of evidence before something happens.
An alarm.
Silent, but I can see the red light that starts blinking in the corner of the room. I can feel the subtle change in air pressure that suggests a security system engaging.
Fuck.
I triggered something. A pressure plate in the floor, maybe. Or a motion sensor I didn’t notice in my desperation to document everything.
I have maybe minutes before Selena comes to investigate. Maybe less.
I take three more rapid photos. I capture the annotations about Max, about current students, about the “removal” protocols. Then I’m moving. I shove the camera back into my pocket. I head for the passage.
The bookshelf door is still open. I slip through and pull it closed behind me. I hear it click back into place. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the ledger as I return to the desk. I force myself to breathe normally. I need to look like I’ve been cataloging books this entire time.
The library door opens. Selena steps inside. Her pale eyes scan the room before settling on me.
“How’s the work progressing, dear?”
I look up from the ledger. I arrange my face into an expression of mild surprise. “Oh, Mrs. Harpsons. I didn’t hear you come in. It’s going well. I’ve cataloged about thirty volumes so far.”
She moves closer. Her heels click against the hardwood floor.
“I’m glad to hear it. This project has been neglected for far too long.
” Her gaze sweeps the room again. It lingers on the bookshelf that hides the passage.
“Did you encounter any difficulties? Some of these volumes can be quite stubborn to remove from the shelves.”
“A few were stuck, but nothing I couldn’t handle.” I force a smile. “Actually, I was just thinking I should take a break. My eyes are starting to strain from all the small print.”
“Of course. You’ve been at this for over two hours.” Selena’s hand rests on my shoulder. This time, I can’t suppress the slight flinch. Her fingers tighten just slightly. A warning, maybe. Or a threat. “You seem tense, Belle. Are you certain you’re all right?”
“Just tired.” I close the ledger and stand. “The trial, the pursuit, the stress of being back on campus. It’s all catching up with me, I think.”
“Perhaps you should rest this afternoon. We can continue the cataloging another day.” She guides me toward the door.
Her hand never leaves my shoulder. “And Belle? Thank you for being honest with me about needing a distraction. It’s important that we can trust each other, especially given everything you’ve been through. ”
The word ‘trust’ tastes like poison.
“Of course, Mrs. Harpsons. Thank you for understanding.”
She unlocks the door. I step back into her office. I feel like I’ve just escaped from a cage I didn’t realize I was in. Victoria Charlson is at her desk outside. She looks up as I emerge, her expression carefully neutral.
“Miss Gallagher.” She nods, then returns to her work.
How many of Selena’s staff know what she really is? How many are complicit in maintaining this elaborate prison disguised as a prestigious academy?
I make it back to my dorm room before my legs give out. The camera feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket. Decades of abuse contained in its tiny memory card.
Max won’t be back for another hour. He’s in class, maintaining our cover of being normal students with normal schedules. Luna and Erik are across campus. They’re equally oblivious to what I just discovered.
I sink onto the bed. I pull out the camera and scroll through the photos on its small screen. Each image is a piece of the puzzle. Proof of what Shark Bay really is.
But it’s not enough. Not yet. These photos show the scale of Selena’s operation. They don’t prove she’s The Architect. They don’t connect her directly to the murders, the blackmail, or the network’s current operations.
We need more.