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It feels as if hours have gone by, and Stella is still sitting on her bed, dream journal dangling in her limp grasp. The sense of invasion is nearly physical, as if he – Paul, Peter Piper – had torn open her skin and played with her insides. Perhaps this is even worse, for organs are the same for everyone while thoughts (and dreams, and what they mean) are what shapes an individual. He has the key now, to what makes up her identity, and Stella, never one to be rattled easily, feels like packing her things and running. She won’t, of course. This is far too important (her job always is) to abandon it now. He’s made this all the more personal, having stepped into her room, having rummaged through her drawers, breathed in the scent of her that lingers between sheets and neatly hung blouses. The room itself has been contaminated, and yet Stella doesn’t move to pick up the phone to make arrangements. Surely there are other rooms available in such a large hotel – or somewhere else, despite the time of night. Perhaps even someone’s couch would do. Returning to the office is another option worth consideration, but she is paralyzed.
A knock on her door breaks the spell at last, only to make her jump and reach for her gun instinctively. He wouldn’t have the decency to knock – she knows that well – especially now that he has made it clear that he thinks himself superior to her in every way. He managed to get in this once, and the message is clear to her: he’ll do it again, just as easily. What’s even worse is that there is no proof, no tangible evidence that he was truly there. She needs no black powder covering her walls and furniture to know that he has left no fingerprints. Her computer’s desktop is the only thing that’s changed, but that won’t be enough to warrant guards to stand watch over her.
The painting haunts her. She thinks of e-mails waiting to be read, but she knows that she can’t bear to look at it again. Füssli’s Der Nachtmahr; the painting’s name comes to her as she crosses the room. She’s seen it before, in a catalog or in a book, and the white female form draped over the bed which iss supposed to be sleeping, but might as well be dead, as the troll-like creature (the nightmare) sits over her was a poignant image to her even then. The meaning behind it is clear. Paul Spector is watching her, the helpless woman, basking in his power over her. Desperation begins to take shape inside her chest because she knows it’s near impossible to gain back her integrity, to re-establish her own superiority. She isn’t used to being so exposed, laying bare her unconscious like that. For years she has avoided therapists for just that reason – the unwillingness to hand over that privacy that defines Stella Gibson.
Whoever waits for her outside her door knocks again, perhaps impatiently. It’s late, and weariness marks Stella’s movements as she steps closer to the door, to catch a glimpse of her next visitor though the spyhole. With so much traffic through her room tonight, it feels almost like some sort of bus station. The luxury and comfort that she had enjoyed until so very recently has been transformed into a state of uneasy anonymity.
Seeing Reed’s face through the small fisheye lens voids the sensation easily, and Stella pulls open the door abruptly before Reed turns to leave.
“Did I wake you?” The other woman asks, but Stella shakes her head. “I haven’t had the chance to sleep,” she offers with a weak smile, but steps aside to let Reed in. Her presence is extremely unexpected, but welcome all the same.
“Do you want a drink?” Stella offers, feeling the need for numbing alcohol wash over her. “Please,” is Reed’s answer, quick and eager. “I couldn’t sleep,” she explains while Stella finds two glasses and fills them generously. “I was wrong to leave – before.”
Stella hands one glass to Reed, not letting her surprise register on her face. With all the commotion in the hours that have passed since she and Reed parted ways she had all but forgotten their interchange; Reed’s rejection. It hadn’t left Stella quite as unaffected, at the time, as she had let on, but now all that seems far off and distant to her – as if days have passed, rather than mere hours. “Oh?” Is all Stella says, wondering if she should tell Reed everything that’s happened: not just Paul Spector’s intrusion, but also Jim, drunk and abrasive, trying to force himself on her. She refrains, for now, and hopes instead that Reed will take the lead and fill the silence.
Instead of elaborating on the reason for her late-night visit, Reed takes a sip of her drink and then lets her eyes rest on Stella. “Are you okay?” She asks with real concern, and Stella’s mask begins to crumble. A large gulp of whiskey, and finds words have started spilling from her lips. Stella doesn’t move, but stands awkwardly in the room as she tells Reed from start to finish what has taken place, bearing her soul for the second time this night. It’s willingly with Reed (unusually so), but insecurity rests in her bones nonetheless, and her voice breaks when she reaches the part of noticing Paul Spector’s invasion. She shows Reed the painting upon request, and Reed takes her trembling, icy hand into her own.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call this in?” Reed probes, but Stella simply shakes her head. “I’ll tell them in the morning – no need to wake them up. There’s nothing anyone can do…” The sentence is left unfinished, but Stella’s fingers respond to Reed’s grasp. “It’s late,” Stella remarks, glancing at the time displayed on her laptop’s screen. The skin contact with Reed reminds her why the pathologist has come at all, and though the mood is truly ruined, she runs a thumb along the inside of Reed’s wrist.
“Will you stay with me till morning?”
The answer is barely more than the hint of a smile and a nod, but it sends warmth through Stella’s limbs. She returns the smile, and then leads Reed, fingers linked together still, towards her bed.