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CHAPTER TWELVE { Is It Worth It } ***
WITH HER ROOM BESIDE YOURS, Emily is standing in her kitchen, her hands running through her hair.
She doesn't know what she's expecting, but she can't hear anything from your room. During cases, you're usually up nearly all night, frenzied and picking through everything bit of information that you have. She can usually hear your feet shuffling against the hotel carpet, and the occasional pen or file hitting the floor.
You paced, usually. When you're deep in thought and when you're working a case late at night, you pace. But you're not right now. It's silent.
Emily doesn't like to be this worried about you all the time, mostly because she knows that you don't like it, but she simply can't help it.
She rubbed at her face, pulling at her skin. After minutes of attempting to direct her mind elsewhere, she sighs and walks out of her hotel room. She stands outside of your door and after a bit of hesitation, drums her knuckles against the wood.
She hears your footsteps grow nearer, then a pause (you're checking the peephole, and finally the chain of the lock and the turn of the doorknob.
When you swing the door open, your eyes are widened, your eyebrows knit slightly.
"Hi," Your words come out more like a question than a greeting.
Emily notes how the gap you leave in the door is narrow. Are you hiding something?
"How are you?"
You recognize her attempt to stray away from the are you okay question, and although how are you is simply the same question rephrased, you appreciate her effort.
Still confused, you force a smile, leaning against the doorframe. Your shoulders are tense.
A mix between a laugh and a scoff tumbles from your lips. "I'm good. Why wouldn't I be?"
You watch Emily's eyes flick to your left, over your shoulder and beyond your face. Her eyes narrow at the coffee table in your room. Shit.
When you widen the gap in the door a bit, Emily takes this as an invitation (it isn't; not a conscious invitation at least) and gently pushes past you. You turn sideways and watch as she enters the room.
"No really, come in." You mutter under your breath.
Her eyes settle on the small tequila bottles on the coffee table—one empty, three still full—and then connect with yours.
