CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS BLUR TOGETHER IN MY MIND.

When I manage to stand, dizziness washes over me. My head pounds, and my entire body feels like one massive bruise. There's a ringing in my ears, and everything around me seems distant, as if I’m experiencing it through a haze.

I must have blacked out from the blast, though I can’t be certain. By the time I regain enough strength to move, the fire consuming the warehouse is nearly out.

Dazed, I stagger up the hill, picking my way through the smoldering wreckage. Every so often, I come across something resembling a charred limb, and twice, I stumble upon nearly intact bodies, missing only a leg or a head.

Somewhere in my mind, I register these discoveries, but I don’t fully absorb them. I feel strangely detached, as though I'm not really present. Nothing affects me. Nothing unsettles me. Even the pain in my body is dulled by shock.

I search for him for hours. By the time I stop, the sun is high overhead, and sweat soaks my skin.

Now, I can no longer deny the truth.

There are no survivors. It’s as simple as that.

I should weep. I should scream. I should feel something.

But I don’t.

All that remains is numbness.

Turning away from the ruins, I begin walking. I have no idea where I’m heading, and I don’t care. My only focus is placing one foot in front of the other.

As dusk approaches, I stumble upon a cluster of tiny houses, constructed from wooden poles and cardboard. A shallow creek cuts through the center of the settlement, where a few women are washing clothes by hand.

The shock on their faces is the last thing I see before collapsing just a few feet away from them.

"MISS Calloway, DO YOU FEEL UP TO ANSWERING A FEW QUESTIONS FOR ME? I’M Agent Byers, FBI, and this is Agent Volkov."

I lift my gaze to the stocky, middle-aged man standing beside my bed. He isn’t at all what I imagined an FBI agent to be. His face is round, almost cherubic, with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes.

If he wore a red hat and had a white beard, he could easily pass for Santa Claus.

His partner, Agent Volkov, is the complete opposite—thin to the point of gauntness, with deep-set frown lines carved into his narrow features.

For the past two days, I’ve been recovering in a Bangkok hospital. One of the women from the creek had alerted local authorities about a girl wandering into their village.

I barely remember speaking to them—I doubt I made much sense—but they understood enough to notify the American Embassy. From there, U.S. officials took over.

"Your parents are on their way," Agent Volkov informs me when I continue to stare at them in silence. "Their flight will land in a few hours."

I blink, his words somehow breaking through the icy numbness that has cocooned me since the explosion. "My parents?" I rasp, my throat uncomfortably tight.

The thin agent nods. "Yes, Miss Calloway. We contacted them yesterday and arranged for the earliest flight to Bangkok. They wanted to speak with you, but you were sedated at the time."

I absorb that information. The doctors have already told me I suffered a mild concussion, along with first-degree burns and multiple lacerations on my feet.

Other than dehydration, the lingering effects of surgery, and various bruises, they were surprised by my relatively good condition. Still, they must have sedated me to help me rest.

"Would you be able to answer some questions before your parents arrive?" Agent Byers asks gently when I don’t respond.

I offer the slightest nod, and he pulls up a chair. Agent Volkov follows suit.

"Miss Calloway, you were abducted in June of last year," Agent Byers says, his round face radiating warmth and patience. "Can you tell us anything about what happened?"

I hesitate. Do I want to tell them about Lucifer? Then I remember—he’s gone. None of it matters anymore. A wave of grief crashes over me, so intense it robs me of breath, but just as quickly, the icy numbness takes over again.

"Sure," I say evenly. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you know his name?"

"Lucifer Incenzo. He is—" I swallow, my throat tightening. "He was an arms dealer."

Agent Byers’s eyes widen. "An arms dealer?"

I nod and relay what little I know about Lucifer’s organization. Agent Volkov frantically jots down notes while Agent Byers presses on, asking about Lucifer’s operations and the terrorists who took me from him.

They seem frustrated by his death and by how little information I have. I explain that I haven’t left the island since my abduction.

"He kept you there the entire fifteen months?" Agent Volkov asks, his frown deepening. "Just you and this woman, Daphne?"

"Yes."

The agents exchange a glance, and I recognize the thoughts running through their heads. Poor girl, held like a prisoner for a criminal’s pleasure.

Once, I might have felt that way too. But not anymore.

Now, I would give anything to turn back time and return to being Lucifer’s captive.

Agent Byers shifts his attention to me and clears his throat. "Miss Calloway, a sexual abuse counselor will be stopping by later this afternoon. She’s highly experienced."

"There’s no need," I cut in. "I’m fine."

And I am. I don’t feel like a victim. I don’t feel violated. I just feel empty.

After a few more questions, they leave me alone. I don’t share any specifics about my relationship with Lucifer, but I suspect they already have an idea.

Next, an FBI sketch artist arrives, and I describe Lucifer to him. He keeps glancing at me oddly as I correct his sketches. "No, his eyebrows should be a bit thicker, straighter… His hair—yes, more wavy, just like that…"

He struggles the most with Lucifer’s mouth. It’s impossible to capture the allure of that dark, almost angelic smile. "Make the upper lip slightly fuller… No, that’s too much—it should be more defined, almost delicate…"

At last, it’s finished. Lucifer’s face stares back at me from the white paper. A sharp pain slices through my chest, but as before, the numbness quickly shields me.

"That’s one good-looking guy," the artist remarks, admiring his work. "Men like that are rare."

My fingers curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. "No, you don’t see them every day."

The next visitor is the counselor Agent Byers mentioned earlier. She’s a slightly heavyset brunette, likely in her late forties, but there’s something in her sharp gaze that reminds me of Daphne.

"I’m Marylin," she introduces herself, settling into a chair. "May I call you Ella?"

"That’s fine," I reply tiredly. I don’t particularly want this conversation, but the determination in her expression makes it clear she isn’t leaving until I talk.

"Ella, can you tell me about your time on the island?" she asks, studying me closely.

"What exactly do you want to know?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable sharing."

I hesitate. The truth is, I don’t feel comfortable sharing anything. How do I put into words what Lucifer made me feel? How do I explain the intense highs and lows of our complicated relationship?

I already know what she’ll think—that I’m damaged, that my feelings for him aren’t real, just a side effect of my captivity.

And she might be right—but it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s a line between right and wrong, and then there’s what Lucifer and I shared. Nothing and no one will ever be able to fill the emptiness he left behind. No amount of therapy will ever take away the ache of losing him.

I offer Marylin a polite smile. "I'm sorry," I say softly. "I’d rather not talk right now."

She nods, unsurprised. "I understand. Many victims struggle with self-blame, thinking they somehow brought this upon themselves."

"I don’t think that," I say, frowning. Well, maybe the thought crossed my mind when I was first taken, but Lucifer quickly erased any doubt. He was a man who took what he wanted—and he had wanted me.

"I see," she says, momentarily perplexed. Then her expression shifts as if she’s figured something out. "He was very attractive, wasn’t he?" she asks, watching me closely.

I meet her gaze without a word, unwilling to confirm anything. I can’t afford to talk about my feelings—not if I want to keep up the icy detachment that’s keeping me from breaking.

She studies me for a few moments before standing and handing me her card. "If you ever feel ready to talk, Ella, please reach out," she says gently. "You can’t keep it all inside forever. Eventually, it will consume you."

"Okay, I’ll call," I say, taking the card and placing it on the bedside table. It’s a lie, and I’m sure she knows it.

Her lips curve in a faint, knowing smile, and then she walks out, finally leaving me alone with my thoughts.