Emory sat quietly in Loomis's office, watching him pace behind his desk. Minutes ticked away in tense silence, broken only by the occasional echo of footsteps out in the hallway.
"What did you say to him?!" Loomis demanded. In his eagerness, he seemed more than capable of ignoring the thunderous expression growing in Emory's eyes. "All this time, hundreds of hours of trying to bring him out, and you accomplish it in a matter of minutes!" He stopped and stared at her with a feverish look in his eyes. "What did you say to him?!"
Emory sent him her best, most innocent smile. "I just told him what I knew about him." She paused to let her lie sink in. "I've found that sometimes, reiterating the patient's history can help to bring them out of their Catatonia. It forces them to remember who they are."
Loomis made an irritated noise in his throat, and Emory suppressed a smirk. No doubt he was trying his damndest to justify how a 26-year-old know-it-all little bitch had managed to get through to a patient that Loomis had been working on for more than a decade. Yes, Emory could understand how that might sting.
But she felt no sympathy at all for him. Samuel Loomis had made more money on his book about Michael Myers than he ever had by treating the man.
As Loomis ranted a while longer, Emory let her mind wander, and she wasn't at all surprised when it wandered straight back to Michael. The feeling that shivered through her when she thought about those clear blue eyes... it was something as similar to fear as possible, some strange mixture of wariness and excitement. She had just challenged one of the most dangerous men in the country. In fact, now she posed the greatest threat to one of the most dangerous men in the country.
She had every reason to be afraid, and yet, of course, she wasn't.
"Dr. Brighton!" Loomis snapped, bringing Emory's attention back to the issue at hand. "Is your analysis complete?"
Emory frowned. "I need to do some research to be completely positive, but I believe so."
"Good. Send me your report when you're finished."
And with that, Samuel Loomis dismissed her. Emory tried her best to hide her smile as she left the room. When she was sure he intended to remain in his office, she took a right and made her way towards the third floor, where Michael was kept. The guards on duty glanced uninterestedly at her id tag; they'd seen her earlier at the conference with Michael.
She walked down the hallway, to the last door on the left, where Michael's name was emblazoned on a steel plate. She stepped up to the narrow window and looked through.
A pair of cold blue eyes stared back at her. Emory's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He was standing in the middle of the room, facing her, staring directly into her eyes as if... as if he'd been expecting her.
Emory smiled. "Very, very smart," she murmured. She wasn't sure why she felt so drawn to him. He had every reason to want her dead. He could, in fact, be planning her death at that very moment.
But still, despite the fact that her finely honed common sense was telling her to stay away from him, Emory felt quiet helpless against whatever it was that pulled her closer. Was it the intelligence that shone so clearly from his eyes? Was it the allure of a dangerous man?
Or was she just crazy?
Emory nodded once to him and left. That last possibility was fast becoming a prominent one in her mind, and she could not afford to show any weakness in front of Michael.
Because it was becoming more and more likely that she would not survive the next few months.
Two days passed. Emory buried herself in her research to keep her mind off Michael, and the growing sense of frustration that he had lit within her. Why was it that she couldn't go an hour without feeling that chill and seeing those pale blue eyes in her mind? Was she destined to become obsessed with him? Was he the factor that would finally push her over the edge and into complete madness?
The more she thought about him, the more determined she became to understand him. Yes, she had realized the truth about Michael Myers, but the answer to that question had only dumped a million other questions upon her.
Why the masks? What facet of his intelligence had lit upon masks as a method of coping with his imprisonment? And why, if he was so clearly capable of escaping at any time in the past decade, had he decided to stay in the asylum?
What drove him to kill? What drove him to become mute? Did he have a conscience? Did he try to justify his murders?
She wasn't sleeping well. She was barely sleeping at all. She had to be prepared for the call when it came. She had to be well armed against both Loomis and Michael. She knew he must have ways to communicate, even if it was subconscious, and she was determined to find out how.
And she was determined to get some answers to all those questions Michael had brought upon her.
On the third day, Smith's Grove called, some random nurse asking to set up an appointment for another conference with Michael Myers. Emory agreed, and she smothered the anger she felt at Loomis. If he couldn't handle a simple call for help, what the hell made him think he could handle Michael Myers?
Anger or no, questions or no, Emory slept very well on the third night.