Island Captive: A Dark Romance

by Jane Henry

  I strip out of the rest of my clothes, stand, and stare at myself in the huge, full length mirror. I'm still tanned, my body still bearing the marks of the burns, but I'm healing.

  Physically anyway.

  When I look at my belly I remember his hand splayed across me when he slept. I fan my fingers on my naked skin and swallow hard. When I look at my legs I remember the way they felt wrapped around his torso, how he held me in the water and kissed me like it was the last day we had. When I look at my face I remember the feel of his whiskers on my cheek, my neck, my belly, when he kissed me. I look at my lady parts I’ve kept meticulously bare, and remember his touch. His mouth. I take in a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to remember the way he smells, but all I smell is clean linen. I turn away from the mirror in disgust.

  I climb into bed and close my eyes. I’m… comfortable. It’s familiar and comfortable being nearly naked like this. But my bed feels cavernous and empty. So fucking empty.

  I roll onto my belly, and an unfamiliar feeling wells up in my chest, my throat suddenly clogged.

  I shouldn’t be here. This is wrong.

  I didn’t belonge here before I left, and I don’t belong here now.

  I died on that island with him, and here, I’m a walking ghost of the past that has no place to go. I pull a sheet up over my shoulder, but it doesn’t stop the shaking. I think of crashing waves, sandy beaches, and strong arms around me that hold me when I sleep. And for the first time in my life, I let myself cry. Tears flow down my cheeks and I sob until I’m choking. I can hardly breathe, I’m so wracked by tears. I grab tissues from the bedside table and blow my nose, but it doesn’t help. I sniff and wipe my eyes, the sadness like a weight I can’t move off my chest.

  “I need to go back,” I whisper to no one. Back to what? Captivity? Isolation?

  Is that really what it would be?

  And how would I get there?

  I shake my head. I know the truth now.

  On the island I found freedom. Fucking freedom.

  I pull the covers up over my head and cry myself to sleep.

  There are two leather love seats and a recliner in the shrink’s office. I was escorted in here by a receptionist and told Dr. Lynch would be in shortly.

  He has a fake plant in the corner in a porcelain planter. I never much cared if plants were real or fake before, in my past life. I couldn’t even tell. But now this plastic imposter makes me feel sick. I know what real bushes and plants and trees look like, clustered in verdant green, leaves reaching heavenward for sunlight. Why do we use fake plants, anyway? Isn’t there enough masquerading already? Is it so hard to dump water on a living thing to keep it alive? I turn away from it in disgust and sit on the leather loveseat.

  I’m dressed in simple jeans and a tank top. I feel oddly out of place, like a junior high school student at the senior prom. I don’t belong here.

  I don’t belong anywhere, I tell myself. But I know it’s a lie.

  There is one place where I belonged, for a little while.

  I’m alone in the room. Where is the therapist, and why is it taking him so long to get here? I glance at the pictures on the wall with gilded frames and accolades telling me that the person I’m about to talk to has somehow earned the honor of hearing my most deeply-hidden secrets.

  As if a college degree gives him the right.

  I scowl. I used to pay very close attention to every single detail in a room like this. In any room, for that matter. I’d observe anything that would indicate the characteristics of the person I was about to meet, cataloguing every detail. I’d know the entryways and exits, where every window and vent was, how to get to the escape routes. What floor we were on and where security stood.

  I huff out a self-deprecating, mirthless laugh. I’m slipping.

  What do I even remember?

  I clench my teeth. I’m acting as if my days and hours are disposable and none of this matters.

  But does it?

  I look at the clock on the mantle and frown. He’s fifteen minutes late now. I seem to remember that’s typical, though, to not be on time for these things.

  I need to get my shit together. First, a little observation.

  The person I’m about to see is meticulous. Papers are color-coded and lined up on his desk like soldiers. He has a taste for good things, as the large, sturdy, cherry wood roll-top desk and leather furniture bears witness to. The plush carpet is clean, the glass end tables bearing coasters for drinks, and three matching frames with pictures of young adults I’m assuming are his children. It smells faintly of coffee in here, and on the mantle hums a white-noise machine likely placed there to give us some privacy.

  I start when a door opens, and glance in surprise at the well-dressed gentleman who enters the room. He looks younger than I expected, certainly not old enough to have college-aged children, but I suppose some people just look young. Or maybe those people in the frames aren’t his children, but nieces or nephews or something. He’s fit, with broad shoulders that are visible even through his long-sleeved, button-down white dress shirt. He’s clean shaven, has high, defined cheekbones and full lips, and the slightest of scars on his chin.

  “Ms. Fontaine?” he says, extending his hand. I stand and shake it. It’s cold and clammy, and I immediately pull away.

  “Call me Nadine,” I mumble, then sit back on the leather loveseat.

  “Nadine,” he says with a smile, but the smile doesn’t meet his eyes. He looks distracted, as if he doesn’t want to be here or something. And I’m supposed to be telling this guy my deepest, darkest secrets? Confiding in him?

  Fuck this bullshit.

  “Nadine, can you tell me a little bit about yourself?” he asks, leafing through his notebook and not meeting my eyes.

  I huff out a breath. “I’m here because my boss made me come,” I tell him. “I really have no interest in being here, just so we’re clear.”

  He smiles. “Clear,” he repeats. “You’re here to discuss the trauma you experienced on the island after apprehending criminal Adrian Barone, correct?”

  I swallow hard. I didn’t expect to jump to that so quickly, and I definitely didn’t expect to feel the sharp pain in my ribcage like a knife when I hear Adrian’s name. It’s all over the news and no secret that I was sent to apprehend Adrian. But hearing this man say it, and with no preamble, pains me.

  “Yes,” I say. I swallow and look away.

  “I saw your interview,” he says, likely referring to the interview I gave when I first returned home. I don’t respond, not knowing what he really wants me to say.

  He asks me a few questions about my past, if I have any family alive, friends I see on a regular basis. Do I keep up with social media? They’re odd questions. I answer automatically, not meeting his eyes. I feel as if I’m going to be sick. I want this shit over with, so I answer.

  “Glass of water, Nadine?”

  I nod. He stands, walks over to where glasses sit on a mirrored tray, and pours a glass with his back to me. He comes back, the water in his hand. I take it gratefully and place it on the coaster next to me. He watches me, frowning, and takes his seat again.

  “Tell me about Adrian,” he says.

  The question takes me by surprise.

  “I don’t know anything about him,” I lie, not meeting his eyes. “He died on the plane. I arrested him because he was an escaped convict, but before I could bring him home, he died.”

  “How did you find his body?”

  What? I blink, frowning. “He was on the shore with the rest of them,” I stammer. I wasn’t prepared for this, so I blunder my response like an awkward teen asking for a first date.

  He frowns and puts his paper on his desk. Something isn’t right here. I may have dulled my instincts, but this situation is wrong, and I need to get the fuck out of here. I get to my feet.

  “Sit down, Nadine,” he orders. His eyes have darkened now. He points back to my seat with his pen. What will he do if I don’t do as
he says?

  Slowly, I lower myself onto my seat.

  “Why don’t you have a sip of water?” he says, gesturing to the glass. I pick up the glass and stare at it.

  A few moments ago, I berated myself for not paying attention to details as I used to. Now, it’s all I see. Everything is a threat. I can’t trust anyone. Is my mind playing tricks on me? Will I be this fucked up for the rest of my life? Still, I can’t help it. Instead of gulping down the water, I let it hit my lips and wait to see if I feel anything. Has it been poisoned? I place it back down on the coaster and look at him.

  Who is this man?

  “Your stories don’t match up,” the man says nonchalantly. I note his fingernails are longer than what’s proper, untidy and dirty. My stomach churns. This is not the man who color-coordinates papers on his desk. I suddenly realize his shirt is too big, the pants too baggy.

  “In one interview, you said one body was in the cockpit and he’d likely drowned, but now you’re saying all the bodies were on the shore. What was it, then? Who died?” He pierces me with a look. “Who didn’t?”

  I get to my feet. This isn’t fucking therapy, it’s torture.

  “Sit,” he orders again. And then my gaze wanders to the closed closet door, and I see the stain of something red on the carpet, barely visible under the door. Reality dawns on me like a flash flood, cold, blinding, chilling.

  “You’re not a doctor,” I whisper. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Of course I’m a doctor,” he says, his voice calm. “Now tell me about Adrian,” he repeats. “Did he ever make it off the island? Did you ever have him on that plane at all?”

  What?

  “Excuse me?” I whisper.

  He reaches for the waistband of his pants, folds back his suit jacket, and pulls out a gun. “I said sit, Nadine,” he repeats.

  What the fuck is this? Who the hell is he?

  “Who are you?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I did!” I shout.

  The man is on his feet and his hands are on me, the gun pressed up to my temple. “I saw you on that show,” he grates in my ear. “I heard everything you said. I could tell from where I was you were lying, and you know exactly where Adrian is. I doubt he was ever even on that plane heading back home and that somehow, he escaped, didn’t he? You’ll tell me where he is or I’ll pull this trigger.”

  The hell he will. I have information he needs.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll tell you about Adrian, but only if you put the gun down.”

  He lowers the gun and glares at me, nodding.

  “Adrian was not on that plane,” I tell him. “We thought we apprehended him, but I lied to my superiors because I didn’t want to fail the mission. Our sources say he escaped to Fiji but has now relocated to Australia.” It’s close enough to the truth that if he’s recording me, he might believe it.

  His lips twist into a sadistic grin when he thinks I’ll give him what he wants. I wait until he lowers the gun, then drop to the floor and yank him behind the knees on my way down. The gun goes off and glass crashes, but I keep my head, duck low and tackle him to the ground. We wrestle, me pinned under him.

  “You bitch,” he growls. “I just needed answers, but you’ll pay for this shit.” He reaches back and backhands me. Light turns to stars and pain shoots through my jaw. Anger floods through me, and I know then that I’m not going down without a fight. There was a purpose for my return home.

  My mama called me her petite belette for a reason. He reaches back to hit me again, and I roll out of his reach, twist hard so he’s off balance and shove him off of me. He roars his fury and strong arms come at me, but I grab his wrist, bring it to my mouth, and bite down until the wet taste of copper hits my tongue and he screams like a rabid animal. I take the chance to flip him on his back then knee him hard in the groin. He howls with his hands between his legs and growls, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

  I don’t give him the chance, though.

  I lunge for his gun, the familiar cold weight against my palm, turn and pull the trigger.

  I haven’t shot a gun in a very long time, but my aim is perfect. Crimson stains him just above the bridge of his nose. He falls back to the ground, lifeless. I close my eyes and pant, willing the bile that rises in my throat to abate, for my nerves to leave me the fuck alone so I can make the right calls.

  I check his pulse to make sure he’s good and dead, though I know the chances of him surviving that gunshot are slim to none, then haul myself to my feet and go to the phone on the desk. I open the door and sigh when the lifeless body of the real Dr. Lynch falls to my feet.

  I need to call Alex. I dial the numbers on the phone and wait for help to arrive.

  But my decision is made.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nadine

  Alex and I sit in a dive bar right at the shore’s edge. I’m sipping my gin and tonic and he’s taking a long pull from his beer. We’re in civilian clothing, and both off duty. In jeans and a black Oakland Raiders t-shirt, he looks younger than I remember, though I know he’s old enough to be my father. I stare at the pirate emblem in gray and white on the black background on his t-shirt and take a long drought from my drink until ice hits my lips.

  “Haven’t lost your touch, Fontaine,” he mutters. “Right between the eyes, eh?”

  I hold my hand up to the waitress and order another. I miss the island and dislike being home but ordering alcohol from someone who serves it to me on a tray with little white napkins is a decided benefit of returning to civilization.

  “Guess not,” I mutter.

  “Proud of you,” he says. He looks out over the water. Sailboats glide in and out, and a small crowd dances to live music to our right.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I’ve always been proud of what I do. I’ve worked hard to land this job and have assisted in arrests for some of the most notorious crimes on the West Coast.

  “You’re different since you came back,” he says, sitting back in his chair.

  “I am.”

  He nods slowly, as if contemplating the impact of what he needs to ask me. “Question for you.”

  I wait. After what happened yesterday, I’m prepared to face fucking anything.

  He looks at me, and in his eyes, I see sympathy. Understanding. It surprises me, so I swallow, but I don’t look away.

  “Sir?”

  His jaw tightens before he speaks. “Why would anyone attack you for information regarding a prisoner you captured who died in a plane crash? It doesn’t make sense, Nadine.”

  It doesn’t. He’s no fucking fool. The man hasn’t hunted wanted fugitives for a full decade and not learned a thing or two. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then decide to tell him. But before I do, he speaks up.

  “He didn’t die in that crash, did he?’

  I look at him sharply, my response answer enough. He nods, confirming what he knows to be the truth. The waitress brings me my second drink, which I sip slowly before I answer.

  “I was the one who died in that crash, Alex.”

  He arches a brow but doesn’t respond.

  “I’m not who I was anymore. And the man who survived that crash is not the one responsible for the death of the woman he supposedly murdered.”

  Alex nods slowly. “I see.”

  I think there’s almost nothing I can say that will shock him, but I’m wrong, as the next thing I say makes his eyebrows arch so high it’s almost comical.

  “Send me back, Alex.”

  He tilts his head at me. “Send you back?” he asks, tracing the condensation on the outside of his beer absentmindedly.

  I nod. “You can do it. I know you can. You have contacts in relocation programs. With the swipe of a keyboard, Nadine Fontaine died in the line of duty.” My voice lowers. “And it wouldn’t be far from the truth.”

  “I could,” he said. “And I could make a good case for your relocation. But can you tell me why?
”

  I wave my hand at the ocean in front of us, the sea of people dancing below the blinking lights hanging from the ceiling like stars in the sky. “Because who I was died in that crash,” I tell him. “There’s nothing left for me here anymore.” I look at him, meeting his eyes. I’m going to give him the bald truth. “And because I love him.”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ,” he mutters. He looks out at the sea and is silent for several long, agonizing minutes. Alex has been married to his wife, Shirley, for thirty years and I hope he thinks on this as he decides. Finally, he turns to me. “We’ve done this for lesser people than you,” he says with a sigh. “And I believe every word you say is true.”

  Hope blossoms in my chest even as fear makes my hand on my glass tremble. I’ve just asked for something monumental and it’s been fucking granted. A lump rises in my throat when I think of returning to Adrian.

  “Tomorrow morning, seven sharp, meet me in my office,” he says. “The details of this are too important to speak of in public.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” I say, my voice thick with emotion.

  He reaches for my hand and shakes it soberly. “You’re welcome,” he says. His voice catches at the end. “It was nice knowing you.”

  I sit in my seat on the helicopter Alex has arranged, kneading my hands. I’m never nervous while flying, but I’ve never flown away from what I’m leaving now. Though I’ve told myself it means nothing to me, it’s sobering to read your own fucking obituary, and watch as your body is buried with honors.

  “So brave,” the newscasters say. “Escaped near-death only to meet her end so soon after coming home.”

  I feel mildly guilty. But I’ve served my country. What happened to me on that island changed me forever. And though I’ll miss the relative comfort and luxury of home, I’m eager to get back to the island. To feel the warm sand between my toes. The sun on my bare skin.