Page 7 of Mirror Image

“And are you? Thinking about it? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve said you’d never set foot in Miami again. Ever.”

I shrug, pushing an untouched slice around my plate. “Believe me, I hadn’t planned on it. But Braithwaite wasn’t wrong—there aren’t a lot of doctors who can relate to this woman the way I can.”

Gabe holds up a finger as he finishes chewing and swallows.

“Honey,” he begins, wiping his hands on a napkin, “just because you share an extremely tragic, incredibly random life event with this woman does not mean you’re the only doctor on the planet who can assess and treat her . . .”

He looks so damn steady sitting there across from me—tall and broad shouldered without ever seeming like he’s trying to be. His blond hair has started to go silver at the temples, the kind of shift you’d only notice if you were close enough to count the individual strands, and his green-gray eyes—calm, relentless, unblinking—are locked on me with that mix of concern and certainty he deploys only when he’s really worried.

This is what happens when two psychiatrists get together. The relationship becomes one long debate—an endless game of point/counterpoint with no clear winners, only concessions and agreements to disagree. There are no hard-and-fast rules in psychiatry because there are no hard-and-fast personalities. Every one is different because everyone is different.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” I inform him, but he knows me too well.

“Haven’t you? ’Cause from where I’m sitting, you’ve already got your to-pack list started up here.” He taps his temple with his right index finger.

I lean forward across the table, forearms straddling my paper plate as I move closer to him. “You’re right, Gabe: Being a twin isn’t such a unique thing. And I suppose losing one is fairly commonplace too. But to have it all play out in the public eye—to have people standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, skimming through the magazine with your face on the cover? I’d say we most definitely share something unique on that count.”

He shakes his head slowly, reaching across the glass-topped table to put a hand on my arm. “Okay, yeah, I get that. But, Jenn, this girl might have killed her twin. It’s not the same thing as what happened to you. At all.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

Gabe pulls back and straightens up abruptly, shaking his head. “What? No! Not in the least! And the fact that you would even say that makes me think this would be a big mistake.”

I hold up my palms in a gesture meant to signal both a truce and a warning. “I know you mean well, and I know you’re worried about me—”

“Worried about you?” he echoes incredulously. “Do you hear yourself right now? I ‘mean well’? I’m your husband, not your colleague!”

“Well, you’re kind of both, aren’t you?” I point out calmly. “And really, Gabe, would this be your opinion if you weren’t a psychiatrist?”

A cloud crosses his face, and it’s clear that he is not happy with me right now—which wasn’t my intention. But it can’t be helped. Or can it? I’m not sure what my motivations are for anything at this point.

“Yes! It absolutely would be my opinion!” he declares, his eyes steely as they pin me to my chair. “Because—and make no mistake about this, Jenn—I’m your husband first. Your well-being supersedes any of the psychological bullshit. You’re a person, not a case number.”

I jump on his statement. “Exactly!” I shoot back, stabbing at the air with my finger. “And what doctor is going to see Mary Langston as a person? Even the most well-meaning psychiatrist is going to have their interest piqued by her circumstances, her story. And the ones who maybe aren’t so well meaning? They’ll have their interest piqued by her as a case study or worse—a chance to be a part of the media attention around her. That’s why I have to be the one to help her, Gabe. Me.”

The corners of his mouth tighten, and he drops back against the chair cushion behind him, arms folded across his chest, considering me. Because this is also what can happen when two psychiatrists get together: They consider, they weigh, they balance. They reverse course if new information warrants it. They are reasonable.

When, at last, he sighs and his features soften, I know he gets it. “All right. I see your point.”

I let out my own sigh, shallow enough that he can’t see how relieved I am. I’m not sure what I planned to do if he’d objected to this idea as strenuously as he might have—as I might have, had the shoe been on the other foot.

“What’s your plan, then?” he asks. “You’ve got a decent patient load. Picking up and going won’t be the easiest thing right now.”

“Yeah, I’ve been giving that some thought, and the timing’s pretty good, actually—what with the Memorial Day weekend and all. I thought I’d see my two clients in the morning, then catch a flight tomorrow afternoon. That leaves me Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday to spend some time with Mary and, hopefully, be back here in time for my first patient Tuesday.”

He picks up the bottle of wine and holds it up, brows raised in a question. I nod and push my glass toward him for a refill.

“You really think you can get it done over a long weekend?” he asks without looking up as he pours first for me, then for himself.

“Depends on what you mean by ‘get it done.’ I’m not being brought in to treat her—just to evaluate her general mental fitness and her competency to stand trial, should it come to that.”

“And if it does come to that?”

“What do you mean?”

“If she’s tried, will you go back there to testify?”

I shrug as I take a sip, then reply. “I don’t know. I guess. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”