Emma jogs out to her car and turns on the radio for the ride back to headquarters. It's nearing eleven o'clock, but the building is still humming with activity when she enters, goes through the security checkpoints, and up to her boss' office.
Lance hunches at his desk, which is completely covered in papers. He's rubbing the top of his head, and he has the phone tucked against his neck. "Swan's here," he tells someone. "I'll call you back."
Emma knows this can't be good if Lance is willing to end his call, and prepares herself to come off as apologetic. "What's up?" she asks, sinking low in the bucket seat across from him.
"I need you to take a break," Lance breathes out, collecting the mess on his desk and organizing it more neatly. "You've got three weeks vacation starting tomorrow. I've given you too many chances, Swan. You keep going off course, and the fact of the matter is we're going to table this whole investigation for now. Jefferson's proved to be completely unreliable. He's started talking about new age gods, and conspiracy theories. All of our best psychologists have evaluated him. He's a nutcase. We've concluded that there is no weapon, and the best way to handle this is to lock him up until more information presents itself. We can't even assume that Spencer and his lackeys are apart of ORACLE anymore, in spite of what we found in that warehouse. It's possible their whole operation was just another smokescreen-"
Emma's well versed in when it's beneficial to keep quiet, or voice her opinion—yet the more Lance talks, the more she realizes there won't be a good time to speak up. "Who's suddenly pulling the plug on this?" she hoarsely demands. "Why do it now, after all of that talk? I bet it's Big Blue. Isn't it? She just can't stand to have any unfinished business. She covers her ass every time, and makes it look like we've saved the day when we haven't done anything at all-"
"Don't get upset about this," Lance warns, and abruptly stands up to pace. He crosses his arms behind his back and begins a slow march across the office floor. "The truth is we dropped the trail on ORACLE long ago. We don't even know if they're a domestic or foreign network. They've thrown up a million smoke screens, and given us false leads. We're not effective, because we can't even identify the key players in their game. Meanwhile, we're just exhausting our valuable resources, and for what?"
"You swore to me we weren't going to give up!" Emma vehemently argues. "When I got back, after everything I'd been through—after all of the shitty debriefing, and other ridiculous hoops you threw my way, you consoled me with the promise that we'd do whatever was necessary." She's winded from all of the yelling, and she knocks all of the papers from Lance's desk, just because he'll have to clean it all up again. He won't be able to simply file it away and forget all of their records on ORACLE. Her pride hurts- she's practically vibrating with all of her anger.
"We're going to allocate a small team to handle the remaining work," Lance states, in a controlled voice, even as papers fall around him. "We plan to continue providing support to Ms. Mills and her son, but as far as I'm concerned, we've found the wrongdoers we were looking for: Jefferson will be tried as a terrorist. As for the other guilty parties—they have already received their punishment, and we'll continue to search for the one responsible for meting it out."
Emma can only shake her head. This is a complete turn-around that she should have seen coming, but she's still squashed by it. "You'll change your mind when something else happens," she mutters. "I'll be waiting on that phone call." She gets up, and exits without the courtesy of saying goodbye.
As she's halfway to the elevator banks, she detours and pops her head into Eugenia's office. There are balloons floating on the ceiling and a huge vase of sunflowers on the analyst's desk. "Ready for retirement?" Emma softly asks.
"Not quite!" Eugenia replies from behind her computer. Her glasses are still perched on the bridge of her nose, but she lets them drop from her face and dangle by a chain as she scoots her chair around to look at Emma. "I was planning to go home and watch the UFC match, but there's five days until I'm officially done here, and I wouldn't bail on you a minute sooner." She tosses a giant folder down in front of her and pushes it over to Emma. "Some of these are medical histories, as I first suspected. I had to bring in a few consultants to work them out, but we've begun to understand them. Just in time, too. I've been told we're no longer prioritizing ORACLE—or whatever they're calling it now."
Emma plops down on the huge yellow beanbag chair in the corner of Eugenia's office to read the files. The beanbag is the only spot in the whole building where Emma's ever been completely comfortable. She's never taken a seat in a normal desk chair in Eugenia's office, and she half suspects that the older woman put the beanbag chair there just for her.
"Let me give you a summary," Eugenia offers, angling her seat so she can peer down at the files in Emma's lap. "What you're looking at is a bunch of genetic records. But they're coded in an unusual way. In the first grouping, there are five sets of documents, which correspond to five family groups. My best guess is that the purpose of collecting these records was to note subtle changes in genetic lines across many generations. There's also a case of drives, containing a whopping petabyte of information. We have no easy way of sorting through it. We would need a database, or a program to make sense of it all."
"Would anyone miss this stuff if I took it with me?" Emma mutters, distracted by the analyst's added notations.
"Oh, I suppose eventually," Eugenia deliberates, and puts her glasses back on, probably to make sure Emma knows she means business. "But as far as anyone knows, they're in my possession. As long as you come to my retirement party, you can return them to me then-"
"I guess you're holding me to my promise then, huh?" It's a done deal, as far as Emma's concerned. She's already shoving the folder into her jeans, and zippering up her jacket so no one can tell she's leaving with it.
"For once, I am, yes," Eugenia readily concedes. "And you have to bring that lady friend of yours. Ruby told me she's a real looker."
"Oh, hey, Regina's not really my girlfriend," Emma shyly admits. "She was just pretending. I can't ask her to come to your party. She's—she's Regina Mills, the woman… who's under our protection."
"Ask her to come anyway," Eugenia insists, though her face falls, and she's less enthusiastic than before. "She can always say no, but it might be a welcome diversion."
Inviting Regina to a retirement party wouldn't be perceived the same way as asking her out on a date, would it?
"Yeah," Emma says noncommittally, with no intention of even mentioning the party to Regina. "We'll see what happens. She's a busy lady, plus she's got a kid. I'm not even sure if she can arrange a sitter."
It's easy to find excuses, and Emma doesn't state the obvious one: there is a sensitive and floundering part of Regina behind the hardened exterior, and she doesn't want to put the woman in a vulnerable position if it's not strictly necessary. Some of the party attendees will only know of Regina through the documentation of events that occurred, and they're the same judgmental people who looked at Emma differently after returning from her time in isolation.
Emma hates socializing with them, but they're her colleagues and it would be rude of Eugenia to leave anyone out.
Eugenia shuts down her computer, and gathers up her coat and purse. "It's late and we should both get out of here," she decides, gesturing with both hands for Emma to take the lead.
Emma wanders out to the elevator banks, and Eugenia follows her. They're both silent until they hit the ground floor, and then Eugenia says in parting—"I think of you as family, Emma, and I'd like to see you happy. After next week, you'll have to come visit me at home and let me know what's going on in your life. I'll move that old beat up beanbag chair into my living room if I have to. I know how much you like it."
Eugenia winks at Emma, and walks to her old station wagon. The wagon should be scrapped for its metal, and Eugenia can more than afford a newer model, but there are peeling stickers on the leather interior from Ruby's childhood, and other artifacts that make the car priceless to the aging woman.
"I'll visit," Emma confirms. She fleetingly thinks that maybe she'll even practice being a little less reckless, so that she doesn't disappoint Eugenia.
Eugenia waves, hops into her station wagon, and then Emma's left in the parking lot by herself. Going home would be the smart thing to do, so she can get a fresh start in the morning. She's about to do just that, but then her phone rings.
"It's me," Regina breathlessly announces. "I've been invited for a tête-à-tête with Mr. Gold."
"Tonight?" Emma balks.
It's already midnight, and based on Regina's whispering, Emma assumes that everyone else is asleep.
"I want to meet with him," Regina asserts, and that's the deciding factor for Emma.
"Give me like twenty minutes," Emma replies, though she makes it back to the safe house in ten.
She turns off her headlights as she approaches with the idea that she's going to have to find some way of stealthily extracting Regina, but to her surprise, Regina comes running out to her car.
"What, did you sneak out again?" Emma cringes.
There are alarms and security cameras, and Emma can't believe her incompetent fellow agents have let Regina run off for a second time without taking note.
"I convinced Jones to let me out," Regina indifferently explains, as she buckles up her seatbelt. "He wants me to tell you that in the event we get into any trouble, we're to take full responsibility and clear his 'good' name. He actually put it in a much cruder way, but I'll spare you the details."
"Yeah," Emma snorts. "Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity, my ass. He lives by a different motto. At least you didn't have to bribe him."
"Bribes aren't necessary when you have blackmail," Regina informs her, with a wry smirk as she glances sideways through the window. "I'll just say that Mr. Jones vigorously exercises his good hand in his free time on the job-"
"Gross," Emma groans. "Time to change the subject. Where are we headed?"
"To Gold's penthouse," Regina states. "I assume you have the address?"
Emma does have it from when she briefly interviewed Gold. His top floor apartment contains all types of antiques and oddities, and he gave her a full tour during her visit.
"I'm still kind of surprised that you called me," Emma mentions. She's secretly heartened by Regina's choice to include her, but she keeps that to herself.
"Gold requested it," Regina softly discloses-as if she's caught onto how Emma's viewing the phone call.
Emma sinks down in her seat and grips her wheel a little tighter. She's suddenly embarrassed, and wonders if she's presumed too much.
"What do you think he wants?" Emma mutters.
Gold is a powerful lawyer, so Emma anticipates that whatever he divulges will be a carefully-worded partial truth. If he's forthcoming with any valuable information, it'll be worth the late night trip.
"I'm not sure, but I want to ask him some questions," Regina gravely intones. "From having worked with him, I can tell you that his information won't come cheap."
Emma finds a parking spot underneath a blinking street lamp and slouches back in her seat. "We can figure out some kind of trade," she suggests.
Regina takes a deep breath and gradually exhales as she nods. "Let's go."
The doorman has instructions to escort them in, and they take the elevator up to the top floor. Decorative vases with velvety, red roses sit on either side of Gold's foyer. Emma shuffles inside and wipes her boots, while Regina seems to hang back.
Gold comes to the door in his burgundy smoking jacket, and gives each woman a cursory glance before withdrawing into his parlor. He holds a tumbler of whiskey, and the wet bar in the corner draws his attention first, before he even fully acknowledges his guests. After doling cubes of ice into his drink, he settles down in an armchair and peers up at Regina and Emma.
"Well, have a seat," he impatiently commands, and it's clear that they should have figured that much out on their own.
Emma perches at the edge of the sofa, though her posture is stiff. Even though their conversation hasn't yet begun, she's ready to get the hell out of there.
She's not in the mood for anyone's mind games, and she detects the same tension in Regina.
"I don't want to sit down," Regina sneers, with her arms crossed and a no-nonsense gleam in her eye.
"Suit yourself," Gold sniffs, and sips his whiskey without batting an eyelash over Regina's behavior. "One of my clients has just bequeathed you an item of great worth, and requested that I make the transference of said item tonight. That is my first matter of business. The second is Ms. Swan's investigation. I may have a tip for you - though where that tip leads, there's no telling. As you know, I've been handling James Spencer's remaining affairs, and it turns out he owned a fair bit of property under a false name."
He presents Emma with the list of the properties, and then passes a large jewelry box to Regina.
Emma skims the list of addresses, but she's more interested in the box in Regina's hands.
It's a generic packaging, but the necklace that Regina removes from its confines is far from ordinary. The string of diamonds catches the warm light in the room. Each gem casts glorious rainbow prisms all around it.
"Might I recommend you find a safe place for that," Gold murmurs.
"Why would anyone give this to me?" Regina asks in confusion, and lowers the gift back into the box. "Furthermore, why would you think this is such a pressing issue that you called me out in the middle of the night?"
"I don't question my clients' wishes, not when they are paying me handsomely for my time," Gold rationalizes.
Emma scrutinizes him, and concludes that they owe him nothing for this meeting, because he's already profited in some extortionate way. He's only fulfilling his end of the bargain with his client by delivering this necklace to Regina, and he hasn't even left his apartment to do it.
"I don't suppose you're going to tell me the name of my kind benefactor," Regina sedately remarks.
"My contractual obligations prevent me from discussing it," Gold states, and straightens the lapel on his jacket.
Emma hunches forward in her seat. She folds the list until it's small enough to stuff into her pocket. "It's pretty obvious you know some influential people," she tactfully begins, "And your knowledge of what's going on might be as limited as you've attested, but I don't think much gets past you. If any of this is just a distraction, I'll be back. And not under the auspices of the law, but just as a person. A person who's pretty damn tired and fed up."
It's a blatant threat, and inwardly she's not as strung out as she claims—though she's sure she looks frazzled and prepared to take matters into her own hands.
Regina opens her mouth in what might be shock, or excitement. Then her lip twists in a perceptibly satisfied way. "Ms. Swan, shall we?" she raspingly croons, and spins to go.
Gold has no parting words for them, nor does he respond to Emma's warning. It's looking like their meeting is already over.
Even if this isn't a victory, it still feels like one—probably because of the new glimmer of liveliness that lights up Regina's whole face.
Emma hastens after Regina and they get onto the elevator. She has no clue why Regina's staring at her, but she handles the situation by shaking herself, and then gazing at her feet.
It's been a while since she's had a one night stand, but this is the type of buzzing energy she feels from a woman when she's about to get laid.
"You okay?" Emma coughs, for lack of anything better to say in her discomposure.
She can't halt her mind from mentally rehearsing what she'd do if Regina ever came onto her.
It could never be the other way around, Emma's decided, and therefore she's secure in the idea that it won't happen. She's not going to put the moves on Regina—first of all, because that would be sleazy, and secondly, because she wouldn't want to jeopardize the partnership, given their brief and rocky history.
With her thighs clenched so tight that she can hardly walk, Emma makes it back to the car. She risks looking at Regina against her better judgment. It's impossible to rid herself of inappropriate thoughts, and she's not certain why. She bets it's related to too many sleepless nights and decades of loneliness.
"I should ask you the same question," Regina muses. "Do you feel alright? Your face is flushed."
Embarrassment just makes the problem worse, and Emma squeaks out, "Fine—feeling fine." She instantly sobers up.
"I appreciate how determined you are," Regina intones. "In many ways, you've surprised me."
Emma takes the unexpected compliments in stride, even though she secretly enjoys the ego stroking. "I'd tell you that I'm just doing my job, but it's personal," she admits. "And not just because I need to make things right, and compensate for my past screw-ups…"
It would be too much to say aloud that she also wants to protect Regina, but she's heavily implied it.
Regina's eyes narrow pensively and she smiles—more from the eyes, than anything. "Thank you," she says, sincerely.
Emma's first "day off" consists of picking up coffee at a 24-hour mini-mart, returning to her apartment, and using Google maps to check out all of the addresses on Gold's list. She sends a few texts to Regina, but the replies stop coming around two o'clock in the morning, and then Emma passes out on her couch. Her alarm doesn't go off, and she oversleeps until noon. She would sleep even longer, but she wakes up when she begins to drool on herself.
As Emma uses her t-shirt to wipe the cold, wet saliva from her chin, she realizes it's at least midday because of how the sun slants through her window. She stands up and sways, reaching for her cell phone. No new texts, or messages.
Before showering, she goes into the kitchen and peeks into the nearly empty fridge. There's a container of Chinese take-out noodles that have shriveled and hardened, two packets of ketchup and a bottle of orange juice. She grabs the juice and drinks it on the way to the bathroom.
In the middle of washing her hair, she hears the phone vibrate and tries to read the message without getting out of the shower. Soap stings her eyes as she glances down at the screen, and at Regina's brief note: Rob believes you could face real disciplinary action if you continue to disobey orders. Why didn't you tell me you were penalized?
Penalized? I thought I was on vacation, Emma writes. Why are you talking to that jackass anyway?
She's able to finish getting the suds out of her curls, and towel herself dry before another text from Regina comes through: He's been assigned to us, until we can resume our normal lives.
Even if Rob has no choice in the matter, Emma can't help but glower about that.
Over the years, he's changed from someone flexible, to a person whose strict adherence to the rules prevents her from liking him.
What bothers her the most is that now she won't be able to use Regina as a resource.
If Rob believes Emma's job is in jeopardy, he'll prevent her from getting anywhere close to Regina. He's as stupid as he is protective.
Emma composes a quick text on the way out the door: Sorry about that. Call me later when he's not around.
She jumps into her car, and spends the next several hours driving around the Boston area to visit James Spencer's properties. The first of the nine happens to be an abandoned cannery, and there's nothing of interest there. The others are mostly storefronts for rent without any tenants – closed-up shops that have outdated, sun-bleached signs and spray-paint all over their boarded windows.
One of the addresses leads to an undeveloped patch of land in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and there are two vacant residences—one in Burlington, Vermont and another in Camden, Maine. She'll have to take another road trip if she plans to search these last few places, but it's not something she can accomplish in one afternoon.
The next several days go by in a whirlwind of travel. Her exploration of the properties is rewarded when she locates an underground cellar on the Portsmouth land.
At first glance, the place seems to be a storage spot for an impressive collection of fine wine. She wastes hours wandering around the dusty basement, and sampling the lot of them. That's how she notices the strange, barely-there markings in the glass, and notations behind the labels. As she drains the last of a bottle, she comes to a further realization—that there's a false bottom within the glass itself, where more liquid has been contained. It's not wine.
It would be too much work to completely clear out the storeroom, but Emma carries as many bottles as she can and loads them into her car.
She'll have the liquids tested in the lab when she returns to work. For now, she just hopes that she doesn't get pulled over by any state police, who might question why she has a liquor store in her trunk.
It's a long ride to the other property locations. The homes in Camden and Burlington turn out to be mansions, with furniture draped over by dust tarps, and spacious yards with wild, untended gardens.
Emma camps out in the Camden house over night instead of paying for a hotel, and drives back to Boston on the following morning.
There's little point in communicating with Regina while Rob is acting as her personal watchdog. If not for him, Emma might have called Regina – but there's always a chance that the woman will ask about her whereabouts, and Emma would rather not have to lie.
Among other things, she still needs to figure out the identity of the waitress who spoke to Regina, and interview former Senator Leopold White and his daughter Mary Margaret.
Emma's first order of business as soon as she's back in Boston is to track down Mary Margaret White.
It's not difficult. Mary Margaret is one of the doctors at the children's hospital for cancer and blood disorders, and Emma has no trouble looking the woman up in their online database. There's an email address listed, but sending an email would create a paper trail, and Emma wants to avoid doing that until after her suspension officially ends.
Rather than risk generating any proof of her disobedience, Emma goes to the hospital in person.
As she waits in line at reception, she determines which receptionist to approach. There's four on duty, and all of them chat with each other while filing records and directing people to different departments.
The quietest of the bunch is Rhonda—a woman with frizzy, dyed red hair.
Emma chooses Rhonda. She clutches her badge as inconspicuously as possible while still allowing the receptionist to see it. "I'm conducting an investigation," she states. "Will you please page Dr. White for me, or just show me to her office? If she's with a patient, I'll gladly wait."
Rhonda gapes at her, and then hops up from her seat. "Oh—yes," she agrees. "Come right this way. I'll escort you." She's a friendly, helpful woman who rides the elevator with Emma all the way up to the eighth floor. "Dr. White's office is in the north wing," she gestures, but goes the extra few steps and talks to the other staff on Emma's behalf.
Rhonda knocks on Dr. White's door, and not finding her in, hurries off to speak with an administrator on the floor. Shortly thereafter, Rhonda returns to Emma with a report: "Dr. White will be taking a break in a half hour and she'll be back in her office. Would you like me to wait with you?"
"If it's okay, I'll just take a seat in the waiting area over there and hang out until she comes back," Emma replies. "You don't have to keep me company, but I appreciate the offer."
"Okay," Rhonda says, and lingers for an instant longer, like a doting mother. "Good luck with your investigation."
Emma thanks her, and then slumps down in a chair in the empty waiting room. She finds some magazines, but they're mostly for kids and parents.
Dr. White must decide not to take her break right away, because she doesn't show up until three hours later.
By that time, Emma's desperate enough to read one of the parenting magazines. She's just about to skim through an article about supporting kids' creativity when Dr. White appears.
Emma drops the magazine, instantly recognizing Dr. White from the picture on the hospital's website and the older pictures from Albert Spencer's office. The woman's short dark hair and mild features are unmistakable.
"Dr. White?" Emma perks up. "Dr. Mary Margaret White…" She pushes herself up from her cramped position, and presents her badge. "Special Agent Swan, Counterterrorism Division."
This is the part of her job she hates—interviewing civilians who might become informants.
These interactions are almost always full of tension for the interviewee, and Emma feels awkward when she uses her badge to initiate a conversation.
Dr. White holds an armload of paperwork and a tablet, which she nearly drops. "Oh!" she says, startled, then fumbles to open her office door. "Are you here to speak with me? Come in."
Emma steps into the office and gazes around at the organized disarray—the stacks of forms, and the usual knickknacks that doctors often collect from drug companies.
"Yeah, I'm here to ask you about your acquaintance with Mr. James Spencer, son of entrepreneur, Albert Spencer," Emma proceeds. "How long has it been since you've seen or spoken to either party?"
Dr. White trips around her desk, and begins rummaging in a paper lunch bag. She pulls out a sandwich, apple, and an oatmeal raisin granola bar. "I'm sorry!" she breathes. "You don't mind if I eat while we talk, do you? I've been here for the last twelve hours and I'm starving."
"Go right ahead." Emma softens as she watches the woman wolf down half of the sandwich.
"Would you like my apple?" Dr. White kindly offers.
"I had a big breakfast, but thanks," Emma lies.
She's eaten some stale froot loops she found in the back of her cabinet, a stick of gum, and an extra large coffee she grabbed from a convenience store.
Dr. White smiles at her, and takes the liberty of cutting the apple into slices anyway, so they can share. "It's been years since I've seen Albert Spencer, and even longer since I've seen his son," she finally explains, after swallowing a piece of the apple. "Albert Spencer is a friend of my father's. They attended the same prep school as boys. I think the last time I saw Mr. Spencer was at one of my father's parties, over ten years ago. I hope he's alright."
"He is," Emma mutters thoughtfully. "He's okay, but his son recently passed away. There are some strange circumstances surrounding the death."
"I didn't know his son well, but I'm still sorry to hear of his passing." Dr. White frowns. "I suppose that's why you're here?"
"Part of the reason," Emma admits. She sits for a moment, and studies Dr. White, whose walls are covered in accolades and diplomas. Not only does the woman appear harmless, but she's also dedicating her life to improving the situation of many sick kids.
Emma wonders why Regina responded so negatively to the photo of Mary Margaret and her father.
"What about Regina Mills?" Emma asks. "Is that name familiar to you?"
Dr. White tenses, and gentle creases form on her forehead. "Regina," she mutters. "Yes, I know her. She's…actually the reason I'm still here today. I was very sick as a child, and she saved me." She catches Emma eye and hurries to clarify. "Oh—it was nothing serious, not like my patients cope with on a daily basis. It happened all in one night. I had a high temperature and began to hallucinate. Somehow I ended up outside, and fell into our swimming pool. It was after one of my father's parties. Fortunately Regina was still there after everyone left for the night. She heard me splashing, and came to rescue me. Has something happened to her?"
Emma reflexively tightens the muscles in her jaw. "Regina is doing fine," she quietly replies, by way of sidestepping the question. "It seems like it's been a while since you've been in touch with her, but I want you to think really hard: is it possible that any of your mutual contacts or friends would be holding a grudge against her?
"Regina did have her fair share of enemies," Dr. White mutters, and then her face brightens up as if she has a thought. She retrieves some photos from her desk drawer and spreads them out on the desk. In all of the photos, Mary Margaret and her father are standing side by side on the front lawn of an impressive mansion.
"From May until the end of August, my father and I lived in our Cape Cod summer home," Dr. White reminisces. "Regina's house was just up the street from mine. I remember Regina's mother being very frustrated with her, and in just one summer, everything changed. Regina went from being a kindhearted person, to someone who humiliated and bullied everyone. After that, it seemed like the community was dead set against her. My father tried to help set her on a better path, but unfortunately she couldn't be helped. Mrs. Mills sent her away for a while, and then Regina must have gone straight onto college after that. I felt sorry for her."
Emma has no idea what to do with this information. She expected a simpler response, which would point back to Albert Spencer, or another member of their shared social circle. Interviewing everyone who ever lived in that small private community would require more resources and time.
"I know your father is probably a busy man, but it would help if I could speak to him, too," Emma concludes. "He might be able to provide some further insights."
The main reason she's interviewing Mary Margaret first is because setting up an appointment with a former senator will be difficult without alerting anyone else in her division.
"Our plan is to keep this investigation as discreet as possible, so the press don't get involved," Emma sternly explains. "I'll take you both to dinner." She jots her phone number on the memo pad on Dr. White's desk, helps herself to one of the doctor's business cards, and then stands up. "Feel free to give me a call once you've spoken with your father, or I'll reach out tomorrow, and we can figure out a day and time that works for all of us."
"Okay," Dr. White replies, and Emma can tell that this woman is just one of those do-gooder people who actually takes joy in helping anyone she can. "It was nice meeting you."
"Uh-nice to meet you, too." Emma shakes Dr. White's hand, and then leaves the office.
This could backfire on Emma if the senator refuses the quiet meeting and decides to question her story. But she thinks the gain is worth the risk, and how bad can it be, especially if Dr. White's involved?
