Hey Mom. Dad. I'm still here. I'm still alive.

Abby walked slowly towards their graves. It was the first time she'd visited, partly because she hadn't been strong enough before but mainly because he wouldn't let her over this side of the island.

Sorry it's been so long. I wasn't – I couldn't – it's been, well, difficult to come here. Eight years now, Mom. Dad's with you now though so you're together again. I hope you're happy at least. I still really miss you. Guess this wasn't how you imagined me at twenty-six.

Oh, you have grandchildren! She held the two sleeping bundles out in her arms, trying to smile. Twins. They're only ten weeks old. I named them Sarah and Charlie after you two. They're so beautiful. I wish you could've seen them. I don't – I – I'm not sure what I'll do when they get older but I can bring them up for now. Henry always makes sure I have everything I need. He goes to the mainland quite often now I don't need looking after all the time.

She had done the math herself. A birth in early July minus nine months equalled early October. Her wonderful children, the only thing that kept her sane and from throwing herself off the bluffs, must have been conceived very early, back when he'd locked her up in that little room and taken everything away. Born of her fear and shame and humiliation and his ecstasy. But her parents didn't need to know that.

I gave up, Mom. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to die. I'm not brave like you, Dad. I just gave up.

I won't let him turn them into the same kind of monster he is, I promise you. They might well inherit their father's blood-lust but they might get her humanity too. They're healthy, at least. He took me to a clinic somewhere – well, he drugged me and I woke up somewhere – and I knew he was getting me a scan. I didn't know those places really existed. Where you can pay in cash, give fake names and leave no records and they overlook anything vaguely illegal. Maybe I used to move in the wrong circles,she laughed nervously. That was January. I only went back to give birth. They wouldn't help me. I think they owed Henry a favour. Maybe he killed someone for them. I think he still does it. On his trips.

He doesn't treat me that badly. He doesn't hit me. He doesn't lock me up anymore. And I guess he doesn't irritate me too badly. Just –

She couldn't tell them about her life now, if she could call it that. For two months he'd kept her locked in the house, barely letting her out of his sight, except when they'd go out together. It didn't feel like out. It would never feel like out while she was essentially at the mercy of her sociopathic half-brother. A week or so after the start of what he called their new life, he started to let her go running in the woods everyday though, as long as he was with her, and he took her fishing where she'd be handcuffed to the boat and he'd chatter happily about doing his favourite thing in his favourite place with his favourite person.

She gradually got more freedom, partly because he knew she'd never get off the island and partly because he was so ecstatic at her pregnancy, discovered in early December. There was me thinking it was the stress causing me to miss my periods. And as she'd grown bigger and less able to move around, he'd trusted her more and more.

Got you these, she whispered, kneeling and laying her bundled children down on the unkempt grass and resting a bunch of wild flowers on the graves where her father had been buried with her mother at a ceremony he'd hidden her from. She outlined her father's name gently with her fingers, the rings glinting the overhead sun back at her.

He makes me wear them. It wasn't much of an explanation. Call myself Abigail Dunn. It's better than Abigail Wakefield, I guess. His love for his father was the one subject she couldn't fake an interest in so he had stopped talking about the man who butchered her parents and friends as if she'd change her opinion. She knew he considered himself Henry Wakefield though.

We beat him, didn't we? We beat John Wakefield because he'd dead and I'm still here. I'm alive and he's dead. Dead. And our blood will be forever intermingled with his. And I'll spend the rest of my life with his son on Harper's Island.

The tears began to fall before she could choke them back like she did in front of Henry. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry anymore, like she had after Jimmy's death down on the beach. On her own now she could be as hysterical as she liked.

You don't know what it's like. Waking up to see his face every day, the first thing I see. Making myself smile and walk with him. Talking to him and kissing him. Letting him do whatever he wants to my body, whenever he wants, wherever he wants. Pretending I enjoy it. Grass against my back out on the fields or him holding me bent over the kitchen table. And walking up the stairs to his bedroom every night. Sleeping in his arms and trying not to scream as I know every single day will be the same. His eternal childhood summer.

The grass under her forehead was slightly damp and so comforting to her. She lost track of how many minutes passed behind her closed eyes – it could have been hours – but nothing happened. Her parents didn't speak the words of comfort and reassurance that she desperately needed and her children didn't wake. Their breathing was quiet and regular and it soothed her.

Quiet footsteps sounded towards her and she heard something being placed in front of her, on the graves. Then a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around her chest, lifting her to her feet. She opened her eyes, looking into the face she'd gotten so used to now. Lips were pressed to hers for a long second, his tongue parting them briefly, then he let her stand alone and took her children in his own arms.

Done?

She wanted to scream at him, to tell him to get away from her, to stop kissing her, to stop touching her, to stop waking her up at night because he wanted her, to leave her children alone, to not come anywhere near her parents' graves. But, oddly, he had every right to put flowers on her mother's grave because she was his mother too. Quietly she hoped that someone would visit the island, notice the flowers and realise that people were living there. And take my children somewhere they can have normal lives, even if they can't rescue me. But she had never stood up to him. Not once since he broke her. Not properly. She bit her tongue to stop the screams, pecked his lips and nodded.

She gently lifted Charlie from his arms and held him to her body. She figured he was more likely to go bad like Henry had and was determined that he should bond with her more than with his father. Forcing a smile onto her lips and holding her head up, she stepped forward to walk to what she now called home.

I'm done.