Chapter 19 Infiltration – Erik
The assembly hall buzzes with forced attention as Selena goes on and on about academic excellence. She’s determined to maintain Shark Bay’s prestigious reputation. I sit three rows back, wedged between Max and some sophomore who keeps bouncing his leg like he’s mainlining espresso.
Luna catches my eye from across the aisle. She knows what I’m planning. The slight nod she gives me is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Permission. Trust. Everything is riding on this one shot.
“The Harvest represents not just an event, but a tradition,” Selena says from the podium, her voice carrying that maternal warmth that makes my skin crawl. “A celebration of achievement and future potential.”
Future potential. Right. More like a catalog of fresh victims for her network to exploit.
I check my watch. David’s secure server went live ten minutes ago. The live stream is ready, waiting for me to hit record. All I need is fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty if I’m lucky.
Selena’s gaze sweeps the room, pausing fractionally on our group. Luna sits perfectly still, the model student. Belle has her hands folded in her lap, expression neutral. Max’s jaw works slightly, the only tell that he’s as tense as I am.
We look like four students paying attention to another tedious assembly. Nobody would guess we’re planning to expose the woman on that stage as a monster who’s been trafficking children for decades.
“Now, I’d like to invite Professor Costa to discuss the upcoming graduation ceremonies.”
The moment Selena steps away from the podium, I move. Not obviously. Just a casual shift, leaning toward Max like I’m whispering something. Then I’m up, heading for the side exit with the practiced ease of someone who needs the bathroom.
No one stops me. No one even looks.
The corridor outside is empty, my footsteps echoing against old stone as I make for the administrative building.
Jack’s copied keys feel heavy in my pocket, each one a potential disaster if this goes wrong.
But we’re out of time. The Harvest is tomorrow.
Tomorrow, network members will flood this island, and whatever window we have to expose Selena will slam shut.
I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The administrative building is supposed to be empty during assembly. Supposed to be. I keep my ears sharp for any sound of security, of Victoria Charlson’s clicking heels, of anyone who might question why I’m here.
The third-floor hallway stretches ahead of me.
Gothic windows cast long shadows across the stone floor.
Portraits of stern-faced Harpsons ancestors watch from the walls, their painted eyes following my progress.
I wonder how many of them were part of this; how many generations have used this place as a hunting ground.
Selena’s office door looms at the end of the corridor. Solid oak, probably original to the building. The kind of door that’s meant to intimidate, to remind you of the power behind it.
I slip Jack’s master key into the lock. It turns smoothly, almost too smoothly, and suddenly I’m inside.
The office looks exactly as I remember it.
Massive desk positioned to catch the light from tall windows.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes.
The platinum ring with the shark tooth design sits on a small tray beside her computer, catching the afternoon light like a warning.
I don’t have time to appreciate the view or the architecture. I move straight for the hidden library Belle found, running my hands along the bookshelf until I find the leather-bound Paradise Lost that doesn’t budge.
My fingers close around the spine. I pull.
Click.
The section of shelving swings inward with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. The move reveals the narrow passage beyond. I flip the light switch just inside. Fluorescent bulbs flicker to life, illuminating what Belle called “The Architect’s collection.”
“Jesus Christ.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Photos cover every surface. Not just a few. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Children at parties, their eyes glassy and distant. Students in classrooms, unaware they’re being watched. Candid shots spanning decades, all arranged with meticulous precision.
Each one labeled. Each one dated. Each one annotated in that tight, precise handwriting that makes my stomach turn.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands and navigate to David’s secure website. The live stream icon appears, a small red circle waiting to be activated. One tap and I’m broadcasting to a URL only David and his vetted team can access.
My brother spent weeks setting this up. Encrypted servers. Secure connections. Multiple redundancies to ensure the footage can’t be intercepted or deleted. Everything rides on this working exactly as planned.
I point the camera at the first wall, making sure the photos are clearly visible. My hand trembles slightly. I force it steady.
“This is Erik Stone. I’m in Selena Harpsons’ private office at Shark Bay University on Harpsons’ Haven Island. What you’re seeing is evidence of decades of exploitation.”
My voice sounds steadier than I feel. I move methodically, filming each section of wall, reading annotations where I can make them out. The clinical language makes my throat tight, but I keep going.
“Subject 47. Responded well to conditioning. Recruited successfully.”
I zoom in on that photo, showing a girl who can’t be more than thirteen. She’s wearing a white dress at some formal event. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Subject 89. Required additional intervention. Father proved cooperative after demonstration.”
The implications of that annotation make me want to put my fist through the wall. But rage won’t help anyone right now. Evidence will. Documentation will. Cold, irrefutable proof that can’t be dismissed or explained away.
“Subject 112. Unsuitable. Removed.”
I pause on that one, letting the camera capture every detail. The word “removed” is so clinical. So sanitized. Like they’re talking about a file being deleted instead of a human being who disappeared.
I move to the next wall, where more recent photos hang. Students I recognize from current enrollment at Shark Bay. Leyla Clark appears in several, always smiling that bright, cheerful smile. Always positioned near other students like she’s documenting them for someone.
Tyler Holmes’ missing sister Olivia stares out from a photo dated last year. She’s standing in front of the library, books clutched to her chest. The annotation reads: “Subject 234. Transitioned to Facility Seven. Status: Compliant.”
“These are current students,” I whisper into the camera. “People who are here right now, being monitored, controlled, groomed for roles in a network that extends into government, law enforcement, international business.”
I film methodically, capturing every face, every name I can make out. Some photos show students at parties similar to the ones Luna described. Others show them in private moments they clearly didn’t know were being recorded.
Shower facilities. Dorm rooms. Private therapy sessions.
Nowhere was safe. Nowhere was private. Selena watched everything.
I find the section with Luna’s photos and have to stop for a moment. Just breathe. Just focus.
I see Luna at thirteen in that white dress with blue ribbons, surrounded by adults whose faces I now recognize from my parents’ old social circles.
The Queens are there, smiling like proud relatives.
The Gallaghers stand nearby, champagne glasses raised.
And in the background, partially obscured but unmistakable, is Selena herself.
I film it all, making sure the camera captures every detail. Luna at fifteen, looking thinner, haunted, the light gone from her emerald eyes. Luna at sixteen, at seventeen. A timeline of her trauma documented with the same care someone might use for a science project.
The annotations beside her photos make me sick.
“Excellent manipulation skills.”
“Capable of high-level intelligence gathering.”
“Recommendation: continued monitoring and occasional intervention to maintain compliance.”
And Belle. God, Belle at eleven, smiling at the camera with an innocence that makes my chest ache. Her blonde hair is in perfect ringlets. Her dress is white with blue ribbons, matching Luna’s in another photo. They were at the same party, even though neither remembers it.
The annotations beside Belle’s photos detail her “transition from entertainment to intelligence gathering.” They catalog her abuse with the same detachment someone might use to describe crop rotation. Clinical. Efficient. Monstrous.
I film every photo. Every note. Every piece of evidence that Selena Harpsons is The Architect.
My hands find a rhythm now. Pan left, capture the details, zoom in on annotations, move to the next section. Document everything. Make sure David’s team sees it all. Make sure there’s no way anyone can claim this is fabricated or exaggerated.
The photos span decades. I recognize faces from news coverage of the trials. Children who grew up to be politicians, judges, business leaders. All of them passed through Shark Bay at some point. All of them documented in Selena’s gallery.
Some photos are more recent. Students who graduated last year.
The year before. A pattern emerges as I film.
Every year around graduation time, certain students disappear from the later photos.
The annotations beside their names say things like “Placed” or “Transitioned” or, more ominously, “Removed.”
I move into Selena’s main office, pointing the camera at her desk. Files are stacked neatly, labeled by year. I grab the most recent one and flip it open, angling the camera so everything is visible.
“Contracts,” I say into the camera. “Between Selena Harpsons and various network members.”