By afternoon, he can feel himself losing his composure. He pushes back from the desk, needing a break. When he looks at Emma, she’s stopped writing and is staring into space. He thinks she may have been like this for some time.
‘Lewis.’ When she doesn’t look over, he tries again, gently. ‘Emma.’
‘What?’ She snaps her gaze back, glances around. She still seems unfocused as she pushes away from the files in front of her. ‘I’m gonna …’ She stands on shaky legs. ‘I think … I think I need to get some air.’
He wants to help – and suddenly it occurs to him that he can best do that by giving her license to help herself.
‘Emma, how long has it been since you ran?’ he asks.
‘A few days.’ She stares at the mess of paper on the desk, wets her lips. ‘A while.’
He checks his watch. ‘It’s getting late – nearly five. If you wanna go for a run, you should go now, while McCreedy’s still around to do escort.’
Her gaze lifts to his. Her eyes are glassy, her face pale and drawn, and for a moment he gets a raw taste of how she’s feeling. Then she breaks eye contact to nod, and leaves the room.
Kristin looks up from the folders over her knees, the paperwork spread across the flat couch seats. ‘Is Emma going for dinner? I think I would like to go for dinner soon. I’ve nearly exhausted all my options with these news clippings.’
‘If you’re done, you’re done.’ Travis pours himself another coffee. ‘Good job, Kristin. Just leave your notes for me – I’m gonna stay on a while.’
Kristin leaves her notes and wafts out, shutting the door behind herself.
Travis returns to his spot, but he can’t sit. He casts his gaze around the space – Emma’s abandoned research opposite his ownneat stack of folders, the yellow pages with Kristin’s looping handwriting, the paperwork she’s left piled on a corner of the couch. He sets his coffee on the desk and does some tidying, telling himself he’s giving his legs a chance to stretch. While he’s tidying, he tries to think about nothing at all. He just needs his brain to empty itself of horror for a minute. He just needs a place where he can be still.
When the phone rings, he startles, then answers. ‘Uh, yeah, it’s Bell.’
‘Mr Travis Bell?’ A woman’s tentative voice. She sounds older, more like Betty, the receptionist from Behavioral Science. Maybe it’s Emma’s mom.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he confirms. ‘This is Travis Bell.’
‘Travis, my name is Dr Audrey Klein, I was transferred to you through the main reception of Behavioral Science.’
‘Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?’
‘Travis, I’m an emeritus professor of psychology with Ohio University in Columbus, and I’ve collaborated with the Cleveland Rape Crisis Center for a number of years. My work is primarily with survivors of extreme trauma. Specifically, I’m Emma Lewis’s therapist.’
Travis straightens and puts the pile of folders he’s holding down on the desk.
‘I have a long-standing agreement with Emma that I should reach out to her if she loses contact or begins missing sessions, and her parents indicated that she may be with you,’ Audrey Klein continues. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you. Emma has given prior permission for me to talk with you if necessary. She said you were very supportive when you and she worked together last June.’
He’s not sure how to reply. ‘Uh … yeah. I mean, I tried. I’m glad she felt supported.’
‘Is Emma there with you now, by any chance?’
‘No, ma’am. She’s, uh, not in the office at the moment.’ He’s not sure how much he should share. Then he wonders if Audrey Klein will try to contact Emma through Jefferson residential. ‘She’s gone for a run. But I can get her to call you back later, if you like.’
Audrey is quiet for a moment, before replying. ‘Just let Emma know that I’ve called, and we’ve spoken, and that I’m aware she’s at Quantico. If she wants to call back, she’s got my number. Tell her she can contact me at any time.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Travis rubs a hand across his mouth. ‘Uh, ma’am?’
‘Travis, you can call me Dr Klein. Or Audrey. I don’t mind.’ He can hear the smile in her voice.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Uh, thank you.’
‘No problem. What did you want to ask, Travis?’
There are many things he can’t say during the course of an active FBI case. But there are some things he needs to know. He’s just not sure how to phrase the request.
‘It’s tough on her,’ he blurts. ‘This case we’re working on … It’s personal. And that’s tough on Emma.’
