Page 64 of Mirror Image

“Doctor’s orders for whenever she leaves her suite,” Shannon tells me over her charge’s head. “She’s still a little weak.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to be out here?” I ask, thinking about her bandaged and abraded skin. “We could go someplace with less direct sunlight.”

And this view. I don’t suffer from full-on agoraphobia, but open vistas from high places never fail to make me queasy. Even now I have to keep my breaths coming slow and deep so I don’t break out in a very noticeable cold sweat.

“Whatever. It’s fine,” Mary tells me with a dismissive wave. “I just had to get the hell out of that room. I was so sick of staring at those walls.”

Shannon helps her transfer to a white-cushioned chaise longue, dropping a light cotton throw over the girl’s legs.

“Right, just gimme one more second . . .” the nurse tells us, holding up her index finger.

She’s back a minute later to set down two tall tumblers with straws on the table between us.

“Protein drinks,” Shannon explains. “Mary asked for them. I hope you like strawberry.”

I smile. “Love it.”

Once she’s left us, I pull a rattan rocker close to where Mary is stretched out. When my companion pulls a pair of pink tortoiseshell sunglasses from her pocket and slips them on, I follow suit, rummaging around in my bag until I find the overpriced pair I picked up at the airport. I’d forgotten just how brutal the South Florida sun can be.

“So I told you I spoke with your parents yesterday,” I start slowly. “They’re very worried about you.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, I’ll bet they are.”

There’s something different in her tone today—an edge that wasn’t there when we were together yesterday. Of course, her shock is likely wearing off. And God only knows what cocktail of grief and trauma is swirling around in her veins right now.

“You do know they’re the ones who arranged for you to be moved here, right? They had you transferred from Everglades General so you could get the best care possible.”

She pulls her shades down the bridge of her nose and looks at me over the frames. “So they could get Uncle Jules to spy on me is more like it.”

Even though I’ve been told of the connection between Julian and the Langstons, hearing Mary refer to him as her “uncle” doesn’t land right with me.

“So how well do you know Dr. Braithwaite?”

She lets out a little puff of air. “He’s been around as long as I can remember. Holidays, parties. I even worked for him for a while on weekends sometimes. And summers.”

“Worked for him? Doing what?”

“Mostly filing papers and organizing. He’s so disorganized! And he refused to use a computer.”

“Still does,” I inform her with a small smile.

She pauses for a moment, considering the past.

“But I think he was lonely too. After Aunt Rose died, I’d go over to help straighten his office. That man always seemed to be buried in paper!” I chuckle at the spot-on characterization, and she continues. “But more than anything he really seemed to like the company—liked hearing about what was going on in my life.”

This gives me pause.

“Mary, was Dr. Braithwaite like a therapist?”

She shrugs. “I guess. In some ways. But not officially or anything.”

I’m probably overthinking this. After he withheld the fact that he was involved in Mary’s adoption, I’m on the lookout for other factual “oversights.”

“He wants me to encourage you to see your parents,” I tell her. “Is that anything you’d consider?”

“No.”

She says it so simply and easily—as if I’ve just asked her if the sky is purple. There’s no anger there, no malice. There’s just . . . nothing.