Chapter 37: CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Ella

Over the next four months, I try to piece my life back together.

After spending another day in a Bangkok hospital, I’m finally declared fit to travel and return home to Illinois with my parents.

Two FBI agents, Byers and Volkov, accompany us on the long journey. During the twenty-hour flight, they seize every opportunity to question me further.

Both appear increasingly frustrated, as their databases show no record of Lucifer Incenzo’s existence.

“There aren’t any other names you’ve ever heard him use?” Agent Volkov presses again, for the third time, after their Interpol search comes up empty.

“No,” I respond calmly. “I only knew him as Lucifer. The terrorists referred to him as Incenzo.”

Daphne had been right about the identities of the men who abducted us from Lucifer’s clinic. As the FBI confirmed, they were operatives of a notorious jihadist faction called Al-Quadar.

“This doesn’t add up,” Agent Byers mutters, his round face tightening with frustration. “Someone with that level of power should be on our radar.

If he was running an illegal empire producing and distributing advanced weaponry, how is it possible that not a single government agency has a file on him?”

I have no answer for him, so I simply shrug. Even the private investigators my parents hired had turned up nothing.

We had thought about telling the FBI about Lucifer’s wealth but ultimately chose not to.

Revealing this so late in the process would only land my parents in trouble and might make the FBI suspect that I had been complicit. After all, what kind of kidnapper sends money to his victim’s family?

By the time we arrive home, I am completely drained. I’m worn out from my parents hovering over me constantly and exhausted from the FBI bombarding me with endless questions I can’t answer.

More than anything, I’m overwhelmed by being around so many people. After over a year of isolation, the airport crowds feel suffocating.

My old bedroom remains exactly as I left it. “We never gave up hope that you’d come back,” my mom tells me, her face glowing with joy.

I smile, hug her, and gently guide her out of the room. Right now, I need solitude because I’m not sure how much longer I can maintain the illusion of being ‘normal.’

That night, standing under the warm spray of my childhood shower, I finally let go and sob.

TWO WEEKS AFTER RETURNING HOME, I MOVE OUT OF MY PARENTS’ HOUSE. They try to dissuade me, but I convince them that I need this—that I have to stand on my own.

The truth is, as much as I love them, I can’t be around them every second of the day. I’m not the carefree girl they remember, and pretending to be her is exhausting.

It’s far easier to just be myself in the small studio apartment I rent nearby.

My parents offer me what’s left of Lucifer’s gift to them—half a million, give or take—but I refuse. In my mind, that money was meant for their mortgage, and I want it used for that purpose.

After countless discussions, we compromise: they use most of it to pay off the mortgage, refinance the rest, and put the remainder into my college fund.

Although I don’t technically need to work for a while, I take a waitressing job anyway. It gives me a reason to leave the apartment but isn’t too demanding, which is exactly what I need right now.

Some nights, I don’t sleep. Some days, even getting out of bed feels impossible.

The emptiness inside me is suffocating, the grief unbearable, and it takes everything I have just to function at a semi-normal level.

When I do sleep, I’m haunted by nightmares. My mind replays Daphne’s death and the warehouse explosion in an endless loop until I wake up drenched in sweat.

After those nightmares, I lie awake, longing for Lucifer—for the comfort and security of his arms. Without him, I feel adrift, like a ship lost at sea. His absence is a wound that refuses to heal.

I miss Daphne, too. I miss her sharp, no-nonsense attitude and her blunt way of dealing with life. If she were here, she’d be the first to tell me that bad things happen and that I just need to move forward. She would want me to let go.

And I try… but the senseless brutality of her death haunts me. Lucifer was right—I had never truly understood hatred before. I didn’t know what it felt like to want someone dead, to crave vengeance.

Now, I do. If I could turn back time and personally end the life of the terrorist who took Daphne from me, I wouldn’t hesitate. Knowing he perished in the explosion isn’t enough. I wish it had been my hands that ended him.

My parents insist I see a therapist. To appease them, I attend a few sessions. It doesn’t help. I’m not ready to pour my soul out to a stranger, and the meetings feel like a pointless waste of time and money. My grief is too raw, my emotions too tangled. I’m just not in the right mental space for therapy.

I start painting again, but my work isn’t the same.

The bright, cheerful landscapes I used to create are gone. My art has turned darker, more chaotic. Again and again, I paint the explosion, trying to exorcise it from my mind, but each version comes out slightly different—more fragmented, more abstract.

I paint Lucifer’s face, too. I rely on memory, but it frustrates me that I can’t quite capture the striking perfection of his features. No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to get it just right.

All my friends are off at college, so for the first couple of weeks, I only speak to them over the phone or on Skype. They don’t know how to act around me, and I understand why.

I try to keep things light, steering our conversations toward their lives since graduation, but I can sense their discomfort. They hesitate to talk about exams or boyfriend problems, knowing I’ve lived through something horrific.

They look at me with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity, and I can’t bring myself to share anything about my time on the island.

Still, when Mandy comes home from the University of Michigan, we meet up. After a few hugs, the initial tension fades, and she’s once again the same best friend I had through middle school and beyond.

"I love your place," Mandy says as she moves around my studio, studying the paintings on the walls. "This is some seriously cool artwork. Where did you get them?"

I keep our conversations light, mostly steering them toward what’s been happening in their lives since graduation.

But I can tell they feel uneasy discussing things like exams and boyfriend drama with someone they view as a survivor of something horrific.

Their eyes hold a mix of pity and unsettling curiosity, and I can’t bring myself to open up about my time on the island.

Still, when Mandy comes home from the University of Michigan, we make plans to catch up. After a few hugs, the initial awkwardness fades, and she’s once again the best friend who had been by my side through middle school and beyond.

"I love your place," she repeats, wandering through my studio, her eyes lingering on the paintings. "These are incredible. Where did you find them?"

"I painted them," I reply while slipping on my boots. We're heading to a local Italian restaurant for dinner, and as I pull on my skinny jeans and black top, it almost feels like old times.

"You did?" Mandy looks at me, wide-eyed. "Since when do you paint?"

"It’s something new," I say, reaching for my trench coat. Fall has arrived, bringing a chill to the air. After adjusting to the island’s tropical climate, even sixty degrees feels cold.

"Damn, Ella, this is seriously impressive," she says, stepping closer to one of my explosion paintings for a better look. Those are the only ones I’ve displayed—my portraits of Lucifer remain private. "I had no idea you could do this."

"Thanks." I flash her a grin. "Ready to head out?"