Page 110 of Mirror Image

“I don’t . . . I don’t feel so good,” she murmured.

I examined her arm. The gauze that I had taken such care to wrap loosely around the wound was now stretched tight against the swelling. My concern doubled as I unraveled it to find her wrist nearly double the size it had been, the color an alarming shade of purple. I knew enough about snakebites to know that it shouldn’t have progressed so far, so fast. They were dangerous, sure. But we should have had several hours before things were dire—more than enough time to wait out the tide and get to help. Unless I’d misjudged the snake. Unless it was much more venomous than I initially thought.

I looked around, considering our surroundings. The exposed roots of the mangroves looked even creepier as the waning light lengthened their shadows and cast distorted reflections in the shallowing water. Without a single bit of solid, walkable shore, we were stuck exactly where we were. In the canoe. In the middle of the creek bed. Resting atop the mud. With more bugs descending than I could swat away.

Pawing through our gear, I pulled out the tent and draped it over the canoe, securing it as best I could with some rope and a few bungee cords. Once that was done, I propped it up with our paddles, wedging them between our bags so they stood upright, lifting the fabric just enough to give us a little clearance underneath. Sam was shaking now, so I gathered every bit of clothing we’d packed, laying it all atop her—a makeshift blanket covering her from toes to chin.

Then I managed to work my way around and behind Sam so that I could sit against the stern, settling her between my legs, her back to my chest, with her head resting on my shoulder. At least, like this, I could wet a bandana in a little of our fresh drinking water and dab it to her clammy skin.

“We just have to wait out the tide,” I murmured above her. “In a few hours, it’ll start to come back in, and we’ll be able to paddle the rest of the way out of here. We’ll be able to get you some help.”

She gave the barest shake of her head.

“What?” I asked gently. “What are you shaking your head at? Getting out of here? Pfft. Please. We lasted ten weeks in the wilds of Oregon, in the winter, with a ragtag group of campers. In fact, you didn’t just survive, you managed to get yourself laid!”

She didn’t join in my chuckle.

“Something’s not right,” she murmured weakly. “This is happening too fast. I’m . . . I’m not going to make it, Mary. I can feel it.”

My heart jolted in my chest. “What? Don’t say that,” I chided, trying to sound as if this were the silliest notion I’d ever heard in my life.

“I need to tell you some things . . .”

“Sam, please. You’re being dramatic. You just—”

My sister twisted just enough so that she could look back up at me, and I saw she was right. We didn’t have long. I felt her grab my arm with her good hand.

“I need you to listen to me,” she rasped, weakening right before me. “I don’t have a lot of time, and this is important.”

My throat was starting to close up, threatening to choke off my air.

Stop it, Mary!

The three words rang as loudly as if I’d spoken them—which I hadn’t. In fact, I hadn’t even thought them. It was as if the command had come from someone who existed someplace beyond all this. Beyond me. Beyond death.

My racing pulse settled, and I took a deep, calming breath.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

And she did.

Until the sun sank completely into the ocean and the last embers of light were snuffed, leaving behind only a tendril of smoke against the darkness.

Chapter Forty-Three

Jenn

Monday morning

The sun is just coming up when Kellogg and I pull into the driveway of Julian’s bungalow in Coconut Grove. We’ve been up all night, excavating every horror we could from those hundreds of pages—coffee fueled, bleary eyed, vibrating with the kind of anger that keeps you awake long after your body gives up.

As it turns out, Dr. Cassandra Middleton, Kellogg’s wife, is the behavioral-health compliance director for Jackson Health, with one foot in the state licensing board. She spent the night calling in favors across hospital social work, child-welfare liaisons, and ethics committees. By sunrise, she’d stitched together enough off-the-record confirmations to turn Julian’s “research notes” into a prosecutable pattern.

Not everything clicked into place—but enough did.

Enough to know Julian Braithwaite had been playing God, and he’d gotten away with it for a very long time.

Despite the early hour, there’s a light on in the kitchen. For a moment we sit there in the car, staring at it, the silence between us thick as the humid morning air.