Nightmare by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

handing her a folded sheet of paper.
    Wordlessly, Emily took the paper, staring after the girl, who had disappeared back into the crowd.
    “Aren’t you going to read it?” Maxwell asked, curiosity tingeing his words.
    Emily slowly opened the sheet and scanned it. “It’s a note from Dr. Isaacson,” she said. “He wants me to meet him in his office after this session is over.”
    “It’s over now.”
    Emily gulped down the lump that rose in her throat as she pictured Dr. Isaacson’s office, in which hung the portrait of Dr. Amelia Foxworth.
    Maxwell stood and grasped Emily’s hand, pulling her to her feet. Then he turned her hand palm up and stared at it. “Your hand’s all sticky and sweaty,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
    “I—uh—don’t want to talk to Dr. Isaacson,” Emily answered. She couldn’t give Maxwell the real reason.
    “Why not? It’s not like going to the principal for something you’ve done wrong. This whole camp thing is supposed to be about self-esteem, so he’s not going to make you feel bad about yourself. He’s probably holding individual meetings with each of the people here.”
    Maxwell let go of Emily’s hand and wiped his own hands on his jeans. “Talk about whatever he wants to talk about. Just don’t shake hands with him,” he added.
    Emily couldn’t tell Maxwell about her dread of seeing that portrait again and of trying to explain her reaction to Dr. Isaacson. Instead she said, “He may want to talk about why I fainted.”
    “You fainted?”
    “In his office.”
    Maxwell groaned. “One more thing I didn’t know about. Tell me. Why did you faint in his office?”
    Emily looked away. “Mrs. Jimenez said it was because I was hungry. I was in her clinic. That’s why I didn’t come in to dinner.”
    Maxwell’s gaze was so intense that Emily couldn’t keep from meeting it. “Why do I get the idea that there’s even more to that story than you’ve told me?” he asked.
    Emily put a hand on his arm. “Don’t ask me now, Maxwell. Please. I can’t talk about it.”
    Maxwell nodded, suddenly solemn. “Okay.” He glanced around the nearly empty room. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll walk to his office with you.”
    “Thanks,” Emily said. She tried to convince herself that she had nothing to be afraid of. She had her excuse. Mrs. Jimenez had given it to her.
    “I was hungry,” she told Dr. Isaacson a few minutes later as she perched stiffly on the edge of the loveseat in his office. As soon as he had indicated where they would talk, she had chosen the spot, making sure that the portrait was behind her. Although it was creepy to have Dr. Foxworth’s portrait looking down at her, at least Emily wouldn’t have to see it.
    “We try to provide more than sufficient food for our students,” Dr. Isaacson said. “Had you skipped lunch and breakfast?”
    “No,” Emily admitted.
    He leaned back in his chair and smiled. Emily knew he was trying to put her at ease by making her think this was nothing more than a friendly chat. But a friendly chat wasn’t possible. He was the famous psychologist-director of the Foxworth-Isaacson Educational Center, and Emily was … was a witness to Dr. Foxworth’s death. She shivered.
    “Is the air-conditioning set too low?” he asked. “I can easily adjust it for your comfort.”
    “No, sir. I’m fine,” Emily said.
    “You’re fully recovered from your fainting spell?”
    “It wasn’t exactly a spell. I was just hungry,” Emily repeated. “Mrs. Jimenez said so.”
    “So she reported,” he said. Then abruptly, catching Emily off guard, he added, “I was informed at our staff meeting that you exhibited an interest in Dr. Amelia Foxworth.”
    Emily swallowed hard. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “I just asked who she was. I saw her picture. She looked familiar.”
I’ve said too much
, she thought. Ducking her head, she let her hair fall forward.
    “Then I assume you had met Dr.