I didn’t expect Carson to answer when I texted my reply. It was ages since his last message came through. OK then he’s off the list, I wrote, even though he’d never been on it. I didn’t have it in me to solve this mystery, too. Today of all days, I needed my mind in the game.

When I hit the send button, his response was instantaneous.

Good, Carson wrote. Watch out for him. He might try to turn you against me.

I’d been prepared to end the conversation, but that stopped me short.

What? Why the hell would he do that? I was more proficient with the tiny keyboard than Carson, and the dead time between my text and his response was agony. Finally, his reply appeared.

Jealousy, like I said. It was always him who got punished for the shit we pulled as kids. And look at us now.

Meaning you’re rich and important and he’s a lowly cop? I thought. What I wrote was, Tim doesn’t care about that. As I typed, it struck me I wasn’t sure whether Tim’s lack of wealth bothered him. It didn’t look like Tim was blowing his paycheck on designer clothes and fancy cars, but he was visibly impressed by the Sinclairs and their estate. He knew a lot about how families like this one spent their fortunes. Maybe it did grate on him that Carson made it big in the city while he never got out of A-Bay.

I get that he’s your colleague and you want this to work, Carson wrote back, but he’s not a good person. I’m sorry, I’ll explain when you get home, but please believe me. It’s the truth.

Not a good person? Ten hours ago Carson was Timmy’s biggest fan, petitioning for his inclusion in the most meaningful day of our lives. I’d only known Tim a few months, but Carson’s left-field claim didn’t mesh with what I’d seen firsthand. Or maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention. Hearing Carson, my fiancé, talk about him that way turned my stomach. I did want our partnership to work. Was it possible I’d been misreading Tim all this time?

Just be careful, Carson wrote, for the second time that day. Promise me. You might feel like you’re in control out on that island, but remember what you’ve been through.

“Typically,” Carson had said thirteen months ago on the day we met, “adult victims of this kind of trauma experience one of two reactions. An emotional response—shock, disassociation, hopelessness—often tops the list, but there may also be social repercussions. Despite having been isolated from society during their confinement, victims often withdraw from others after they’re freed, even their closest family and friends. You may experience intense feelings of loneliness, even when you’re not alone. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but it’s textbook for this kind of psychological condition. You’re going to feel lost. Abandoned. Adrift.”

I walked out of Dr. Carson Gates’s Junction Boulevard office with my brain reduced to mush. I’d gone in expecting to be picked apart, but I was still disheartened when, after listening attentively to my story and promising not to give up on me, Dr. Gates said I was in for a lifetime of pain. I remember thinking, Great, this pretty police psychologist’s going to turn the ordeal I barely survived into a case study. Before I even got back to the subway I was convinced he’d already decided which psychology journal was most likely to give him the cover.