We climb into the limo, and I sit in my usual spot in the back. Uncle continues to talk on the phone, and I sit staring out the window. Long green lines of countryside pass by in a blur. The picture of the nightmare room sits on my lap. I can feel it- it seems to have a presence, a weight, all on its own. I try to push it aside, concentrating on my fears for Mireille. My mind races through many thoughts, settling on none. Droger… how this man knows about me, and why he seems to want Mireille, is a frightening puzzle.
After a good length of time, I finally I hear Uncle click off the phone. I try to focus my thoughts, knowing I will be asked about my time alone with Droger.
“So what did you think of him?” Uncle asks, shifting in his seat to turn his head sideways.
“He is unusual.” I reply, not wanting to admit my fear. Uncle snorts in disdain.
“That’s a kind way of putting it. He’s as proud and arrogant as ever.” he shakes his head in disbelief. “Perhaps even more so, if that’s possible.” He stares out the window for a moment, as if remembering something.
“Take the overpass. It’s quicker.” He waves at the driver. He looks back to me.
“So what did he say to you?”
“He showed me some of his artwork. And he wanted to look at the lifeline on my hand. To see how long I would live.”
“Interesting.” Uncle echoes the very same words I just heard before.
“Why would he do something like that?” I ask, looking at my hand. I don’t see anything unusual about it. I don’t know what he was looking at- I have several lines, and they seem to cross.
“Did he say anything else about it?” Uncle asks.
“No.” I lie. After he looked at it, he’d said: I find I care about your future. What had he seen? And his warning not to trust Soldats….I clench my hand, not sure what I should reveal to Uncle about our conversation.
“It’s just a superstition. It means nothing.” Uncle’s voice is reassuring. “What else?”
“He gave me a sketch he did.” I pass him the sketch of the room, knowing he will ask for it. He looks at it quietly and passes it back to me. I wait for him to comment, but he is silent.
“Anything else?” his eyes bore into me.
“He called me…Anna.”
I see his eyes widen. Then he frowns, and suddenly turns back around in his seat.
“Why did he call me that?” I scoot forward.
“Most disturbing.” Uncle clears his throat, suddenly sounding hoarse.
“Is that…is that my real name?”
“Anna…was the name of the servant girl he murdered. Anna…is the reason he’s been in jail all these years.”
I slide weakly backwards into my seat, feeling a cold chill run over my body. I take out the sketch he gave me again, looking at it, my hands shaking.
For Anna….

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