Page 96 of Mirror Image

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so off kilter? Or are we going to dance around it for a while? Because I wouldn’t mind pouring myself a glass of wine.”

“Oh, God, you have no idea how much I’d love to join you. Ugh. Right, anyway—so all these big things happened that brought everything to a head and have made my continued services unnecessary. But here I am, feeling like it’s still just kind of . . . I don’t know . . . unresolved, maybe? I’ve got this nagging, niggling thing going on, and I’m beginning to think maybe you were right and I should have thought harder on this in the first place. So I just need you to tell me to let it go and come home already.”

When Gabe speaks again, there’s nothing sexy or playful in his voice. “Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”

I chuckle. “What, you don’t want me home?”

“Of course I want you home. Like yesterday. But I’m not going to try and talk you out of whatever it is that your gut is telling you, Jenn.”

“But it’s nothing concrete. It’s just this feeling of . . . I don’t know, unease, maybe?”

“I don’t care what it is,” he breaks in. “There’s a reason why it’s bugging you. Your subconscious sees something that you haven’t spotted yet—consciously—for whatever reason.”

Again—the whole “when psychiatrists marry” thing.

“You think?” I ask doubtfully.

“Honey, you have some of the best instincts I’ve ever seen, and I’m not just saying that because you float my boat, light my fire, and ring my bell.” I chuckle, and he continues. “In all seriousness, it’s what makes you such a good doctor. When you see your patients, you somehow know, intuitively, what they need from you and how to give it to them. You don’t second-guess yourself in treatment, do you? You don’t sit there and debate how to proceed, right? I mean, tell me if I’m wrong about that . . .”

“No, you’re right,” I begin a little hesitantly. “I guess this just feels different.”

“Well, yeah. Because this is different. This isn’t the controlled environment of your office. You don’t have weeks, or months, or years to work with this patient. You have days. And there’s a lot riding on it. I think that’s why you’re having a little trouble trusting your gut.”

I sigh. “Yeah, you might be on to something there. But where do I even begin pinpointing what it is that’s not sitting right with me?”

“Pull the thread,” he says simply.

“Excuse me?”

“Pull. The. Thread. Honey, you’re not going to rest until whatever it is has been settled one way or the other. You’ve got your fingers around the thread; now start pulling at it. Everything will begin to unravel from there, and, eventually, you’ll come to the end.”

I’m about to make fun of his choice of analogies when my laptop dings with the arrival of a new email. I skim the contents in the preview pane. It’s from the medical examiner.

. . . Per Detective Rivera’s request, I’m forwarding the finalized autopsy report to you as part of the completion of the investigative file . . .

“Okay, well, I’m going to swing by Cuba Libre, have a few drinks, then maybe . . .” I say, double-clicking on the attachment and giving it a quick scroll even as I wrap up my phone call. The clinical descriptions, the medical jargon, the flat, lifeless photos.

Something makes me stop and loop back to something I’ve just passed. Something that grabbed my subconscious’s attention.

“Then maybe what?” Gabe asks when I leave the thought trailing.

“Umm . . . just hang with me for a sec, honey,” I murmur, tucking the phone between the crook of my neck and my shoulder so I can return to the image—a pale shoulder, inked.

The caption reads: Tattoo, right shoulder: constellation Gemini, twin stick figures.

My mouth goes dry.

“Wait—wait, wait . . .” I whisper, scrolling closer. “Oh my God.”

“Jenn? Everything okay?”

My hand goes to my mouth as I drop against the back of the chair.

“Jenn?” Gabe is starting to sound alarmed.

“Forget about pulling on the threads,” I breathe, still staring at the screen. “I think the universe just handed me a seam ripper.”

“A what?”