For the past two days, I have been recuperating in a hospital in Bangkok.Apparently, one of the women at the creek had notified the local authorities about the girl that wandered into their village.I vaguely recall them questioning me, but I doubt I made any sense when I spoke to them.However, they understood enough to contact the American Embassy on my behalf, and the US officials took it from there.
“Your parents are on the way,” Agent Bosovsky says when I continue to stare at them without saying a word.“Their flight lands in a few hours.”
I blink, his words somehow penetrating the layer of ice that has kept me insulated from everyone and everything since the explosion.“My parents?”I croak, my throat feeling strangely swollen.
The thin agent nods.“Yes, Miss Leston.They were notified yesterday, and we got them on the earliest flight to Bangkok.They wanted to speak to you, but you were sedated at that point.”
I process that information.The doctors already informed me that I have a mild concussion, along with first-degree burns and lacerations on my feet.Other than that, they were impressed by my overall good health—dehydration, recent surgery, and various bruises notwithstanding.Still, they must’ve sedated me to let me rest.
“Do you think you could answer some questions before your parents arrive?”Agent Wilson asks gently when I continue to remain silent.
I nod, almost imperceptibly, and he pulls up a chair.Agent Bosovsky does the same thing.
“Miss Leston, you were abducted in June of last year,” Agent Wilson says, the expression on his round face warm and understanding.“Can you tell us anything about your abduction?”
I hesitate for a moment.Do I want to tell them anything about Julian?And then I remember that he’s dead and that none of it matters.For a second, the agony is so sharp, it steals my breath away, but then the numbing wall of ice encases me again.“Sure,” I say evenly.“What do you want to know?”
“Do you know his name?”
“Julian Esguerra.He is—” I swallow hard, “—he was an arms dealer.”
The FBI agent’s eyes widen.“An arms dealer?”
I nod and tell them what I know about Julian’s organization.Agent Bosovsky scribbles down notes as quickly as he can, while Agent Wilson continues asking me questions about Julian’s activities and the terrorists who stole me from him.They seem disappointed that he’s dead—and that I know so little—and I explain that I haven’t been off the island since my abduction.
“He kept you there for the entire fifteen months?”Agent Bosovsky asks, the frown lines on his thin face deepening.“Just you and this woman, Beth?”
“Yes.”
The agents exchange a look, and I stare at them, knowing what they’re thinking.Poor girl, kept like an animal in a cage for a criminal’s amusement.Once I felt that way too, but no longer.Now I would do anything to rewind the clock and go back to being Julian’s captive.
Agent Wilson turns toward me and clears his throat.“Miss Leston, we’ll have a sexual abuse counselor speak to you later this afternoon.She’s very good—”
“There’s no need,” I interrupt.“I’m fine.”
And I am.I don’t feel victimized or abused.I just feel numb.
After a few more questions, they leave me alone.I don’t tell them any details of my relationship with Julian, but I think they get the gist of it.
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?”
