Page 109 of Mirror Image

“What confidentiality violations?” I break in. “They came from Sam herself. And Mary’s dead. The only one who didn’t give permission is Julian, and when I tell you the rest of this, you’ll see why it doesn’t matter.”

“Wait, so there’s more? More than him seeing both girls and never disclosing that? How much worse could it possibly get?”

I lean over, reach into my purse, and pull out one of the red leather volumes, and then I hold it up for him to see. “You need to see this entry from Sam’s journal from the year she was fifteen.”

“My reading glasses are inside. We can either go in, or you can just read it to me.”

“Right, okay . . .” I hold the book close to the lantern on the table between us. There’s just enough light for me to see the pages. “‘Samantha continues to respond favorably to our sessions. Her attachment to me is growing stronger, which aligns with what I’ve observed in cases of patients deprived of stable affection during formative years. For her, the boundaries between professional guidance and emotional intimacy are blurred, as expected from someone who has never known genuine care. I find it fascinating how her psyche is shaped by the lack of nurturing in her time within the foster care system.

“‘It is evident that she views our relationship as a source of comfort and security, the closest thing she’s ever experienced to love. While conventional views might frown upon such dynamics, it’s hard to ignore the therapeutic benefits she derives from it. Rather than any harm, our interactions serve to fulfill an emotional void. It’s more of an experiment in understanding how fractured development seeks repair, isn’t it?’”

When I look up, Kellogg is sitting up straight, gaping at me.

“Holy shit. Is he saying . . . ?”

“That he was having a sexual relationship with her? Yes.”

“Son of a bitch!” he mutters harshly, slapping the glass tabletop hard enough to make it wobble. “Fifteen? She was just fifteen!”

His outrage reassures me he had no idea about any of this, and it emboldens me to continue.

“Dr. Kellogg, there’s more . . .”

His head tilts to one side, jaw locked, hazel eyes blazing. “Tell me.”

I set the one journal aside and pull the second out of my bag. I open it to the page that was dogeared for me when I received it. Then I clear my throat, and I begin.

“‘The situation with Samantha has taken an unexpected turn. Her pregnancy was not part of the plan, but it presents new variables for study. She was understandably distressed when she found out, but I’ve taken steps to handle the matter discreetly. Arrangements have been made for the child to be sent to a facility in the Midwest, the Harper Home for Children. It’s a place I trust, one where the child will be well cared for, out of sight and mind.

“‘I have no intention of telling Samantha where her child is. The knowledge of the baby’s whereabouts would only complicate things, especially given her emotional instability. She’s far too fragile to handle such responsibility. Instead, the child will serve a dual purpose—an incentive for her cooperation, as well as a reminder of the consequences if she steps out of line.

“‘Samantha needs to understand that her future depends on my decisions, just as her child’s does. This arrangement ensures control over the situation, allowing me to guide her more effectively. She has already begun to grasp the importance of our bond, but now she will know how much further that bond extends.’”

With that, I close the book, set it down on the table, and look at the man sitting across from me. He’s red—completely crimson—and I can feel the waves of fury radiating off him. He takes several deep breaths through flaring nostrils, as if he can’t quite trust himself to speak yet. When he finally does, his voice is frighteningly low.

“Where are the rest of those?” he asks, nodding toward the book.

“In my trunk.”

“Right. You go grab them while I put on a pot of coffee. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.” I don’t know what it is that he sees in my expression—relief, maybe? But he pauses and exhales deeply, holding my gaze. “It’s okay, Jenn,” he says, using my name for the first time in recent memory. “You did the right thing coming here. You can trust me.”

God help me, I believe him.

Chapter Forty-Two

Mary

Last weekend

If we were moving slowly when there were two of us paddling, we were barely inching along when it was just me. The canoe was unwieldy with the new weight distribution, and it took everything I had to nose it along, floating in and around, under and over the clusters of vines and jagged-edged stumps that were starting to break the water’s surface as the tide went out. At first my paddle would glance against the muddy bottom every few strokes, but it didn’t take long until the bottom of the canoe itself dragged the creek bed. We would not be moving another foot—not in this boat.

Behind me, Sam was quiet. Too quiet. I’d tried to engage her at first but found I needed to keep my concentration fixed on the twisting path ahead of us. But now as I shifted around on my seat to face her, the exhausted, overheated blood in my veins turned frosty. Her eyes were closed, her face pale with a sheen of sweat. Her chest rose and fell in quick, minute movements, her breath a series of shallow, open-mouthed gasps.

Dear sweet Jesus.

“Sam? Sam, open your eyes,” I instructed. “Sam!”

My loud insistence managed to penetrate the haze of her shock, and her lids fluttered open to reveal watery blue eyes.