Chapter 42

"Oh, please." Beth is starting to sound exasperated. "You know Julian is fucking crazy about you. Whenever I talk to him, it's Nora this, Nora that . . . Does Nora need anything? Has Nora been eating well?" She lowers her voice comically, mimicking Julian's deeper tones.

I grin at her. "Really? I didn't know this." And I didn't. I mean, I knew that Julian is crazy about fucking me—and he definitely admitted to a certain obsession with me because of my resemblance to Maria—but I didn't know I was this much on his mind outside of the bedroom.

Beth rolls her eyes. "Yeah, right. You're not nearly as naive as you pretend to be. I've seen you batting those long lashes at him over dinner, trying to wrap him around your little finger."

I give her my best wide-eyed-innocent look. "What? No!"

"Uh-huh." Beth doesn't seem fooled in the least.

She's right, of course; I do flirt with Julian. Now that I'm no longer quite so afraid of my captor, I am again doing my best to get into his good graces. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there is a persistent hope that if he trusts me enough—if he cares for me enough—he might take me off the island.

When this plan had first occurred to me—in those terrifying first few days of my captivity—I had been playacting. As soon as I found myself off the island, I would've done my best to escape, regardless of any promises I might've made. Now, however, I don't even know what I would do if Julian took me with him. Would I try to leave him? Do I even want to leave him? I honestly have no idea.

"Have you ever been in love?" I ask Beth, picking up my brush again.

To my surprise, a dark shadow passes over her face. "No," she says curtly. "Never."

"But you have loved . . . someone, right?" I don't know what makes me ask that, but I've apparently touched a nerve, because Beth's entire body tightens, like I just struck her a blow.

To my surprise, however, instead of snapping at me, she just nods. "Yes," she says quietly. "Yes, Nora, I have loved." Her eyes are unnaturally bright, as though glittering with unspilled moisture.

And I realize then that she's suffering—that whatever happened to her had left deep, indelible scars on her psyche. Her thorny exterior is just a mask, a way to protect herself from further hurt. And right now, for whatever reason, that mask has slipped, exposing the real woman underneath.

"What happened to this person?" I ask, my voice soft and gentle. "What happened to the one you loved?"

"She died." Beth's tone is expressionless, but I can sense the bottomless well of agony in that simple statement. "My daughter died when she was two."

I inhale sharply. "I'm sorry, Beth. Oh God, I'm so sorry . . ." Setting down my brush again, I walk over to Beth's couch and sit down, putting my arms around her.

At first, she's stiff and rigid, as though not used to human contact, but she doesn't push me away. She needs this right now; I know better than anyone how soothing a warm embrace can be when your emotions are all over the place. Julian delights in making me fall apart, so he can then be the one to mend me and put me back together.

"I am sorry," I repeat softly, rubbing her back in a slow circular motion. "I am so sorry."