‘I understand,’ Audrey says, and her tone is so calming that Travis feels his posture soften. ‘As I already explained, I’ve been in touch with Emma’s family – again, this is with Emma’s prior knowledge and agreement. Her parents said the authorities are concerned about a Huxton copycat.’
That Audrey Klein has even this much information makesTravis feel easier in his mind. And it’s easier to admit his own concerns.
‘I don’t know how to help her.’ He tips his head back, still holding the phone. ‘It’s like she zones out. She gets stuck on a loop with these memories …’
‘Okay,’ Audrey says. ‘First of all, we all zone out sometimes, to some extent. For a survivor, it’s a protection from intrusive memories. But what you’re describing doesn’t sound like memories. Travis, I know you’re in law enforcement, so I’m sure you’ve dealt with trauma. But you’ve never dealt with severely traumatized survivors before, have you.’
‘No,’ Travis concedes.
‘Their experience is different. Some memories are much more real for them. They’re not “remembering” – they’re reliving.’
‘Like a flashback?’
‘Yes, that’s what it’s called,’ Audrey confirms. ‘Survivors feel the same emotions, even re-experience the same sights and smells and sounds. Itislike a loop, one they’re trapped in. They relive the original trauma over and over again.’
Travis stares into a shadowed corner of the Cool Room. ‘So every time Emma has a memory of Huxton …’
‘Yes,’ Audrey says. ‘In her mind, she is back in that basement. Experiencing the event again.’
‘Jesus.’
‘It’s hard to manage day-to-day, and difficult to treat psychologically because almost anything could push that button. Emma is amazingly level, for someone who’s been through what she has.’
Travis’s first thought isHow can she stand it?The whole concept makes him want to punch something. Combined with what he read and saw in the Huxton file this afternoon, it makes him feel completely adrift.
He presses the phone to his ear. ‘How can I help her?’
‘Travis, that is a very kind thing to ask,’ Audrey says gently. ‘Very kind. And you’re probably already doing some of the things required, like being patient, and being a good listener. But a more specific answer to that question isn’t something I can just give you. For one, there are doctor–patient confidentiality issues hanging over this conversation, do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ he says dully.
‘But there’s a way you can find out the answer yourself,’ Audrey goes on. ‘And that is to ask Emma.’
‘Oh. Right. Of course.’ He closes his eyes.
‘Just talk to her, Travis. Ask her what she needs. If you ask in the right way, she’ll tell you.’
After the phone call from Audrey Klein ends, Travis puts the handset back with a plastic clunk.Just talk to her.A red flare of frustration pulses in his chest. The one thing he needs to do, which is somehow the most difficult thing of all.
He sighs, sits back at the desk, and calls Betty at reception, to pass on the message to Emma that Dr Klein called for her. Then he steels himself and knuckles down again, leafing through page after page. When he resurfaces, it’s after seven in the evening and he still wants to punch something, so he goes to the Quantico gym, does a few circuits, and hits the bag for a long while. He thinks that’ll be enough to help him sleep.
He’s wrong.
After midnight, he gives up on sleep, throws off his bed covers. He washes his face in the bathroom of his accommodation in Jefferson and changes out of his sleepwear into jeans and boots and a T-shirt, plus an old Harrington jacket that used to belong to his dad.
When he takes the elevator to the basement, it’s nearly 1:00AM, and the entire facility is quiet and empty as a graveyard. He lets himself into the Cool Room, but he doesn’t flick on the overhead lights, just a lamp on the desk.
He’s been going through reports for about a half-hour when a noise makes him look up. Emma is letting herself in, head down, creeping through the door. She’s wearing black athletic pants and a gray OSU sweatshirt that’s about two sizes too big, the sweatshirt slipping away at the collar, revealing the strap of a white tank. The skin of her curved shoulder has a pale sheen in the low light. Her head is smoked with the dark fuzz of her hair. She’s carrying a folded blanket and a cushion, and her shoelaces are untied.
Travis puts down his pen. ‘Can’t sleep?’
Emma jumps with a yelp – yelps again when she bangs her elbow on the doorknob.
He realizes his error immediately. ‘Oh shit. I’m sorry—’
‘Fuck.’Her expression is furious. ‘Fuck, Travis!’
‘Are you okay? I’m really sorry.’
