The FBI sketch artist comes to see me next, and I describe Julian to him. He keeps giving me funny looks as I correct his interpretation of my descriptions. “No, his eyebrows are a little thicker, a little straighter… His hair is a little wavier, yes, like that…”

He has particular trouble with Julian’s mouth. It’s hard to describe the beauty of that dark, angelic smile of his. “Make the upper lip a little fuller… No, that’s too full—it should be more sensuous, almost pretty…”

Finally, we’re done, and Julian’s face stares at me from the white sheet of paper. A bolt of agony spears through me again, but the numbness comes to my rescue right away, as it did before.

“That’s a handsome fellow,” the artist comments, examining his handiwork. “You don’t see men like that every day.”

My hands clench tightly, my nails digging into my skin. “No, you don’t.”

The next person to visit my room is the sexual abuse counselor they mentioned to me before. She’s a slightly overweight brunette who looks to be in her late forties, but something about her direct gaze reminds me of Beth.

“I’m Diane,” she says, introducing herself to me as she pulls up a chair. “May I call you Nora?”

“That’s fine,” I say wearily. I don’t particularly want to talk to this woman, but the determined look on her face tells me that she has no intention of leaving until I do.

“Nora, can you tell me about your time on the island?” she asks, looking at me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”

I think about it for a moment. The truth of the matter is that I’m not comfortable telling her anything. How can I describe the way Julian made me feel? How can I explain the highs and lows of our unorthodox relationship? I know what she’s going to think—that I’m screwed up in the head for loving him. That my feelings aren’t real, but a byproduct of my captivity.

And she would probably be right—but it doesn’t matter to me anymore. There is right and wrong, and then there’s what Julian and I had together. Nothing and no one will ever be able to fill the void left inside me. No amount of counseling would make the pain of losing him go away.

I give Diane a polite smile. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’d rather not talk to you right now.”

She nods, not the least bit surprised. “I understand. Often, as victims, we blame ourselves for what happened. We think we did something to cause this thing to happen to us.”

“I don’t think that,” I say, frowning. Okay, maybe the thought did flit briefly through my mind when I was first taken, but getting to know Julian had quickly disabused me of that notion. He was a man who simply took what he wanted—and he had wanted me.

“I see,” she says, looking slightly puzzled. Then her brow clears as she appears to solve the mystery in her mind. “He was a very good-looking man, wasn’t he?” she guesses, staring at me.