‘That’s true.’ Kristin’s thin brush applies a layer of gloss to Emma’s lips. ‘But won’t that make you feel too vulnerable?’
‘I’m already vulnerable.’ Emma swallows, tasting wax. ‘Just by walking into the club. But the old me … That’s not who I am anymore. It’s just another disguise.’
‘You’re a different person.’
‘Yes.’ Emma opens her eyes, looks up.
Kristin shrugs. ‘Then one disguise is as good as another.’ She drops the brush into her makeup bag, selects an eyeliner pencil, leans forward. ‘When was the last time you were in a club? Close your eyes again.’
Emma complies, considers the question. She was sixteen, not yet old enough to club-hop with friends, when her life changed forever. Since ’79, clubs are the kinds of places she’s stringently avoided.
‘Never,’ she admits.
‘Then you’ll need to get the lay of the land. Nightclubs are noisy and dark.’
Emma is intrigued. ‘Clubs don’t really seem your thing.’
‘That’s true. Open now.’ Kristin wields the eyeliner expertly, touches the kohl to Emma’s lower lids. ‘But I really like parties. All that energy! I like gatherings.’
‘I’m basically the complete opposite of that,’ Emma points out.
‘Fortunately for this operation, it won’t matter.’ Kristin finishes, straightens. ‘All right, it’s time for the hair.’
She passes over the wig, helps Emma center it and pull it on. Emma doesn’t need a wig cap – her buzzcut makes everything easier – but the hair is the part Emma is most nervous about.
It brushes against her ears and shoulders now: disconcerting fake hair. Kristin bought a wig with a blunt fringe, but it’s been impossible to style, so they’ve left the body of it as a long fall of dark brown.
Kristin checks the fit of the wig, finishes her makeup job with a brushed dusting of some kind of gray and silver sparkles along the side of Emma’s cheekbones. Now she takes in the angles of Emma’s face, assesses her whole appearance. ‘There. You look like you, but different.’
Emma stands and faces the bathroom mirror and sees … a ghost. A gaunt, pale girl with huge eyes, dramatic makeup, dark hair with aggressive bangs. She blinks, and the stern-looking girl in the mirror blinks back. This is someone she used to look like, someone she doesn’t know at all. The dissonance of it is staggering. Emma desperately wants to take a Valium, but that would be idiotic.
She’s wearing a pair of her own acid-wash jeans, cinched tight at the waist – a good six inches of bare waist. Emma thinks the skin of her midriff looks white and exposed and taut with tension. The black top is something Kristin bought when she bought the wig. It’s a kind of scrunched stretchy fabric, just a boob tube with spaghetti straps. The main familiar element is the shoes: Emma’s wearing her own clean socks and white running shoes.
She catches her breath, touches the spill of the wig self-consciously. ‘The hair is the weirdest.’
‘It’s perfectly lovely.’ Kristin smiles. ‘You look a little like Kate Bush.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Kristin checks the clock high on the tiled bathroom wall. ‘It’s time. Are you ready?’
Emma straightens her clothes in the mirror. Her new hair keeps brushing her shoulder blades, startling her. She pulls a dark men’s suit jacket over the whole ensemble. Kristin wasn’t sure about the jacket, but it has useful pockets.
Kristin nods approvingly. ‘You look good. Are we meeting Mr Bell and the others in the police pen?’
‘I guess so – I don’t wanna wander around headquarters looking like this for too long.’ Emma feels herself flush, fights the urge to press her hands to her face and smear off all this makeup. She keeps her chin down as she pulls on tight black leather gloves with the fingers cut off. ‘I haven’t seen Travis. I think he’s still mad.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ Kristin reassures. ‘He’s just anxious.’
‘I feel guilty that he’s coming with me. I didn’t mean for him to do that.’ Emma adjusts the belt at her waist, flinches; her fingertips are cold.
‘I’mgladhe’ll be with you,’ Kristin counters, packing up her makeup bag. ‘I don’t wholly trust the police to look after you, but I know Mr Bell will. Come on, now – let’s go.’
Emma walks out of the bathroom first, while Kristin collects clothes hangers and equipment. Down the hall, toward the bullpen area, Bell stands a dozen feet away.
He’s dressed to go out – because they’re going out, Emma realizes with a jolt. He’s in black pants and sharp buffed shoes, with a midnight-blue dress shirt. The shirt has a thin, shiny black stripe, and is unbuttoned to his collarbones. The column of his neck is smooth and brown and strong. Emma’s breath escapes her for a second. She feels another flush, this one closer to her stomach.
Bell turns and notices her. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything before shutting it again. Emma sees his throat move as he swallows. She comes closer, and his face softens.
