At first sight of the old Communist-era apartments on the outskirts of Zagreb, I sink into the backseat behind a pair of sunglasses Claudia picked up in Delnice. Even Claudia seems to be keeping a low profile. Her hair, which has dried in waving curls, covers the sides of her face otherwise obscured by a pair of oversize Breakfast at Tiffany’s–style shades. The sun has disappeared with the coast; overhead, the sky is oppressive, threatening rain.

I’ve spent half the car ride on Claudia’s new phone reading anything I could find about Elizabeth Bathory, skimming everything from Wikipedia and History.com to the Weird Encyclopedia for details. Her Protestant roots and Lutheran mother. Her fluency in Latin, German, and Greek, which made her one of the most educated women of her time. That she had an illegitimate daughter before her marriage to Ferenc Nadasdy, the national hero. Apparently she was a doting mother, attended church, and refused to hand over the running of her estates after Ferenc’s death.

Independent, wealthy, beautiful, and smart. A toxic cocktail for any woman of the time, made lethal by the fact that she was a Calvinist and richer than the king—who didn’t dare risk her allying with her cousin in Transylvania against the crown.

There’re plenty of theories about her sadism and rages. That her aunt Klara, an herbalist, was a witch (of course). That it was Ferenc who taught her how to torture lazy servants by poking papers between their toes and lighting them on fire. That the palatine, a man named Thurzo, was an old family friend and the one responsible for saving her from the death penalty after he arrested her. Possibly because he, too, was a Protestant.

As we cross the river Sava into the city, I can’t help but look out at the dull gray water. I think of my mother, floating in the Danube, swollen and grotesque, if not faceless. No, the face she wears is mine.

I had thought we would stay near the outskirts of the city, perhaps in one of the nondescript and depressing apartment buildings that look like they’re made entirely of concrete. But as industrial areas give way to trees and then cultivated parks, I realize with alarm Piotrek is driving directly to the center of the old upper city.

Claudia turns around to peer between the front seats at us—or rather, at Luka.

“Luka,” she says, hesitating. “You understand that talking about Ivan or any of our friends who may know him . . . would be very unsafe for all of us?”

“You mean because of his involvement in the mafia,” Luka says, voice low.

“Exactly.”

“I understand.”

“Good. We’ll have time to rest at my place.”

“I thought we were going to meet your friends,” I say.

“We are. Tonight.” Claudia’s face tilts down toward my shirt. “But not like this.”

We get out on a narrow street.