Page 79 of Mirror Image

I scoffed loudly. “Oh, so now you’re worried about Sam? Seriously?”

My mother’s jaw tightened, and when she spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. “Mary Louise, I don’t know how many ways we can tell you we love you and we’re worried about you. Both of you. You don’t have the life experience to know that you’re headed down a very rocky road. How you proceed from here will affect the choices you have the rest of your life.”

I took a long, deep breath and tried to calm down before I spoke again. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s not necessary. What you’re reading about are overblown stories taken out of context—”

“Out of context?” Dad echoed, incredulously. “The two of you were arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct! And what we just witnessed here in this apartment makes me think the context is spot on!”

“Okay, so we didn’t start it,” I told him, not wanting to get into the details of the night Sam had one too many shots of vodka and picked a fight with an entire bachelorette party. “And we weren’t charged with anything. Besides,” I continued, gesturing around our loft, “as you can see, I’m not living in some hovel. I have an agent and several contracts for commercials and appearances. No one is concerned about the publicity. In fact, it’s only increased our visibility. And if you doubt that, ask our publisher! There’s even talk about a book deal and selling the rights to our story to a producer here in Hollywood. So you see? I’m doing quite well out here in the big bad world—even without the life experience.”

My father stood, offering my mother his hand so she could join him. The two of them looked at me for a long beat before my mother spoke softly, reverently.

“Remember your Proverbs 16:18, Mary. ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’”

Then they turned and walked out.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jenn

Sunday morning

The meeting is in the small private conference room adjacent to David Kellogg’s office. When Julian and I wheel Mary inside, we find Joyce Danner already seated with Doug and Terry Langston—and their attorney, Paul Crane. He’s a tall, thin man in a charcoal suit, his legal pad open and pen poised as if he’s been taking notes since dawn. The moment they see Mary, Doug and Terry jolt to their feet. It’s painfully clear how much effort it takes for them not to rush across the room.

“Oh . . . baby,” Terry whispers, hand flying to her mouth as she takes in the bruising, the swelling, the dried cuts along her daughter’s cheeks.

Crane rests a steadying hand on Terry’s shoulder, murmuring something low—likely reminding her to stay seated. Julian and I position Mary across the oblong table from them. Kellogg claims the head of the table; Detective Luis Rivera sits opposite him, young and sharp in his Sunday-duty attire—dark slacks, rolled sleeves, a loosened tie. His dark hair is neatly trimmed, his eyes steady and kind as he observes the tense almost-reunion with cool, clinical calm.

Not that there is a reunion. Mary doesn’t look at them. Not once. She keeps her gaze on her folded hands, face carefully blank. Once everyone has settled, Kellogg begins.

“Detective Rivera has spoken with Mary, her parents, and their attorney,” Kellogg begins. He gestures toward me. “This is Dr. Jennifer Flores, who has been consulting on Mary’s care. Dr. Julian Braithwaite is the attending overseeing her treatment.”

Rivera offers a polite nod around the table, then leans forward, forearms planted on the glass surface.

“Let me get right to it,” he says. “The medical examiner has ruled Samantha’s death an accident. No indication of foul play.”

Terry releases a strangled sob.

“So . . . how?” Doug asks, squeezing her hand.

“Anaphylaxis,” Rivera says. “Specifically? Snakebite.”

A ripple of shock travels the table in a wave.

Mary looks stunned too—eyes glassy, lips parting softly.

“Dear God,” Julian mutters, rubbing under the bridge of his glasses.

“A snakebite?” Kellogg repeats incredulously. “And this took three days to confirm?”

Rivera doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Given the decomposition, it wasn’t obvious. Mary was incoherent when she was found—talking about leaving Sam in the canoe and trying to hike out alone. Toxicology identified the venom. Diamondback rattler. It would’ve taken hours for systemic collapse.”

He turns to Mary. “Does that sound familiar?”

She shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Not yet. But . . . it fits. She was getting sick.”

“It’s a slow process,” I tell Rivera gently. “She’s coming out of shock and dissociation.”