Neil’s face revealed nothing, but his shock was palpable.
“Go on.”
She described the scene to him. The cage, the man, the voice, the tattoo. He diligently wrote down everything she said.
“This is wonderful news, Emma.”
“It is?”
“Yes. Your mind is letting you know you are ready to handle memory. In the flashback, do you recall how you felt?”
“Um, physically?”
“Either physically or emotionally. Do you recall any feelings you had?”
“I wasn’t afraid. I think I was curious.”
“Curious?”
“I don’t know. I think his accent and his tattoo and his clothes made me curious. I’m sure I hadn’t seen anyone like him before.”
“His clothes?”
“Hmm?”
“You said his clothes.”
The color drained from her face and recognition dawned.
“In my mind, I was thinking why is a man wearing a dress? Neil, I think he was wearing a dishdasha.”
After her session, Emma walked out onto 57th Street and ducked into the corner bodega. Inside the store, she maneuvered past boxes of breakfast cereal and toilet paper and around a mop and a bucket, to the cooler in the back where she found the Fiji Water and grabbed two bottles. She also clipped a bag of the caramel corn Caroline loved and a copy of Business Week that had a picture of Nathan on the cover. She had resisted buying it the day before because she didn’t want to read another interviewer’s take on him. In the photo, he was behind a desk taking a monster bite out of an apple. He was staring directly at the camera, his emerald eyes in sharp contrast to the red of the apple skin. Various red items caught the reader’s attention: a partially obscured file marked ‘Top Secret’ on the desk, the ribbon of a military medal tossed to the side, and in the periphery, barely visible on the floor, a red-soled stiletto. In bold letters across the bottom of the page read the headline: When Does Nathan Bishop Sleep? Okay, maybe there was another reason she didn’t want to read it. Nevertheless, she folded the magazine under her arm and carried the items precariously as she rounded the corner to the register and immediately slammed into a man holding a shopping basket. The water bottles and the magazine hit the floor as she snagged the popcorn in midair. They both immediately squatted to retrieve her things.
“They need a traffic light here,” the man quipped in a cultured accent.
“Sorry about that.”
“My apologies, I’m new to the neighborhood and still finding my way around. That includes the local market.”
She quickly grabbed the things and moved to walk around him. This man was older and unthreatening, late fifties she guessed, and impeccably dressed; still, casual encounters, no matter how benign, made Emma wildly uncomfortable.
“Have a good night.”
“You, too, little one.”
Her blood ran cold at his endearment. She turned to look back at him, but he had already disappeared down the aisle, continuing his shopping. She immediately shook it off. Her shrink had told her countless times not to see a threat around every corner. It was the surest way to drive herself insane. Neil and Emma agreed it would be impossible for her to trust her instincts if every little thing set off alarm bells, so she paid for her items and left the store.