I glance down at my injured hand. I only injured my index finger, but my entire left hand is bound in gauze. The pain has reduced to a dull throb. I take that as a good sign.
Gingerly, I begin to remove the bandages.
Just then, Anderson reappears. His suit jacket is gone. His tie, gone. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, the black curl of ink more clearly visible, and his hair is disheveled. He seems more relaxed.
He remains in the doorway and takes a long drink from a glass half-full of amber liquid.
When he makes eye contact with me, I say:
“Sir, I was wondering where I am. I was also wondering where my clothes are.”
Anderson takes another sip. He closes his eyes as he swallows, leans back against the doorframe. Sighs.
“You’re in my room,” he says, his eyes still closed. “This compound is vast, and the medical wings—of which there are many—are, for the most part, situated on the opposite end of the facility, about a mile away. After Max attended to your needs, I had him deposit you here so that I’d be able to keep a close eye on you through the night. As to your clothes, I have no idea.” He takes another sip. “I think Max had them incinerated. I’m sure someone will bring you replacements soon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Anderson says nothing.
I say nothing more.
With his eyes closed, I feel safer to stare at him. I take advantage of the rare opportunity to peer closer at his tattoo, but I still can’t make sense of it. Mostly, I stare at his face, which I’ve never seen like this: Soft. Relaxed. Almost smiling. Even so, I can tell that something is troubling him.
“What?” he says without looking at me. “What is it now?”
“I was wondering, sir, if you’re okay.”
His eyes open. He tilts his head to look at me, but his gaze is inscrutable. Slowly, he turns.
He throws back the last of his drink, rests the glass on the nightstand, and sits down in a nearby armchair. “I had you cut off your own finger last night, do you remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And today you’re asking me if I’m okay.”
“Yes, sir. You seem upset, sir.”
He leans back in the chair, looking thoughtful. Suddenly, he shakes his head. “You know, I realize now that I’ve been too hard on you. I’ve put you through too much. Tested your loyalty perhaps too much. But you and I have a long history, Juliette. And it’s not easy for me to forgive. I certainly don’t forget.”
I say nothing.
“You have no idea how much I hated you,” he says, speaking more to the wall than to me. “How much I still hate you, sometimes. But now, finally—”
He sits up, looks me in the eye.
“Now you’re perfect.” He laughs, but there’s no heart in it. “Now you’re absolutely perfect and I have to just give you away. Toss your body to science.” He turns toward the wall again. “What a shame.”
Fear creeps up, through my chest. I ignore it.
Anderson stands, grabs the empty glass off the nightstand, and disappears for a minute to refill it. When he returns, he stares at me from the doorway. I stare back. We remain like that for a while before he says, suddenly—
“You know, when I was very young, I wanted to be a baker.”
Surprise shoots through me, widens my eyes.
“I know,” he says, taking another swallow of the amber liquid. He almost laughs. “Not what you’d expect. But I’ve always had a fondness for cake. Few people realize this, but baking requires infinite precision and patience. It is an exacting, cruel science. I would’ve been an excellent baker.” And then: “I’m not really sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it’s been a long time since I’ve felt I could speak openly with anyone.”
“You can tell me anything, sir.”
