The officer eyes me warily. Is he wondering about the plethora of masks the police most likely found when they searched my house for clues about my disappearance? I am growing ever more impatient. And it probably shows in my amber-hued eyes.
"Did you ever gain the name of your kidnapper?" The younger of the two men asks calmly.
"Julian de Arancourt," I hiss. "Comte Julian de Arancourt." Painful memories flood my mind of a time of being held captive against my will. Some recent, others from before I was born—from my soul's days of being known as simply Erik. I can feel Erik struggling and fighting to "come forward". I have to mentally keep shoving him back and I tell him I do not want to create a scene. One of the gendarmes writes in the little pocket notebook. "Thank you for your time. If there are any more developments we will contact you. Good night, madam."
"Goodnight, messieurs."