Mara stared at the digits, which instantly and permanently imprinted themselves in her memory. She looked back up at the handsome, earnest man standing before her. Something strange was happening to her face. Muscles that hadn’t been used in a long time were being called into service.
It took her a moment to realize she was smiling.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. For everything.”
Epilogue
Sixteen Months Later
It was the first heavy snowfall of the year, the initial fat, lazy flakes giving way to a steady blur of white outside the cabin windows. A log cracked in the fireplace, blue sparks flickering through the orange and yellow flames. Mara picked up her coffee mug and sipped as she began to peruse the front page of the newspaper.
North Carolina Top Financier Appeals Conviction in Slave Island Kidnapping/Drug Scandal of the Century
Mara tensed as she read the headline. She had been warned by the prosecuting attorneys that Wallace and the others would probably try to appeal their sentences. Dawn, Ronaldo, and other less key players in the drama the papers had dubbed Slave Island had all turned state’s evidence in exchange for reduced sentences without trial.
A rush of images and memories from the year before flooded her mind—the excitement and confusion as armed men landed ashore and the blur that came afterward. She and the other girls were taken by two of the enforcement agents via golf carts to the small landing strip on the edge of the island. At first Esmé, Raeanne and the other girls hadn’t understood or quite believed they were being flown to safety. After their initial week-long stay at the safe house, during which time Mara and the other girls received medical exams, along with extensive group and individual counseling, some of the girls had returned to their families. Mara and Scarlett, neither of whom had any family to speak of, had spent another month at a clinic for trauma victims in Asheville. Mara still had the scrap of paper with Wes’ phone number, which she’d kept clutched in her hand through the tumult of the evacuation, even though she’d memorized the number.
Though she’d felt a little shy, Mara had taken Wes on his word, and had called him. She’d been relieved and gratified at how happy he’d seemed to hear from her. Though no visitors had been permitted at the safe house, once she was at the clinic, Wes had come to visit her as often as he could. Sometimes they did little more than walk together around the pretty grounds of the facility. Wes never pressed her to talk about her experience, but when she did, he always listened with a kind of quiet, respectful intensity that made her feel heard and safe.
During the last week of her stay at the clinic, Wes arrived with the best possible news. They’d managed to track down Sam, along with two other girls from the island who had been sold to a man in Thailand. The girls had been rescued as part of a larger prostitution ring bust, and were being returned to the States.
Mara leaned over the paper now to read the article, scanning the summation of the year-long multiple trials of Dan Wallace, DJ and Hillary for any mention of Alex Carroll, but he didn’t seem to be included in the appeal.
The criminal trials had been more difficult than she’d anticipated. Especially during Alex’s trial, Mara had had to fight the defense attorneys’ attempts to embarrass and humiliate her on the witness stand, as they peppered her with leading questions and dark insinuations that she was somehow to blame for what had happened to her. She had broken down several times during the questioning by both the prosecution and the defense teams as they forced her to relive many of the horrific moments of her captivity on Pirate Island. Wes Armstrong had been there every single day of her testimony, sitting in the front row, radiating encouragement and sending her a steady beam of courage and support.
During his trial, Alex had had the nerve to testify on his own behalf, claiming he had been duped by the Wallace family to believe the girls were participating on a fully consensual basis in their training, as he called his reign of terror over them all. He’d appeared utterly self-possessed and confident on the stand, handsome in a perfectly tailored suit that hid the snake tattoo on his arm and the dark evil in his heart. “These women worshipped me,” he’d had the gall to insist. “I taught them to realize their potential as fully sexualized beings. I never did anything the girls didn’t expressly ask me to do. I provided a service they would have paid thousands for at a sex clinic. This whole thing is only being twisted against me because of this regrettable drug business, which I had absolutely nothing to do with.”