Page 122 of Mirror Image

“What was that for?” he asks.

“For always making sure I have a safety net. You make me want to be brave.”

“No wanting about it,” he murmurs. “You are brave, Jenn. Always have been.”

I chuckle, starting to unbuckle my seat belt. “Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s only taken me twentysomething years to get here. And I’m not even out of the car yet. This might still go south.”

“Say the word, and we’re gone.”

My answer is to open the door and step out, shutting it firmly behind me. I wait while he exits his side, comes around, and offers his hand once more.

I take it.

We walk down the carpet of thick Bermuda grass, past the resting places of strangers. They are, in some odd way, neighbors of my grandparents, whose plot sits almost at the end of the row under the mimosa tree. This is the first time I’ve visited them in this place. The headstone is a smooth granite adorned with a carving of hands clasped in prayer against a cross. The epitaph reads simply, Forever in our hearts. Below it are first Lito’s name, birth, and death dates, followed by Lita’s. At the bottom the same information has been carved out for their daughter. My mother.

Gabe steps back reverently, just far enough to give me my space, just close enough to let me know he’s there. I stand there for several long seconds as tears begin to slip down my cheeks. I use a hand to wipe them, then kiss the still-damp fingertips before pressing them to the cold face of the stone. Only then do I sidestep to the smaller memorial, the one with the carved angel. I drop onto my haunches in front of it, reaching out to run a finger along the grooves of her name, Jessica Maria Flores. Below her dates is the inscription I know by heart, though I’ve never laid eyes on it before this moment:

And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.

When I look back over my shoulder at Gabe, he hands me the small spade we brought with us. I use it to dig a small hole right at the base of my sister’s headstone. Then, reaching up under my sleeve, I hook a finger over the pink elastic band on my wrist to slip it off. Once I’ve tucked it into the hole, I use my hands to push the bit of displaced soil back over it, patting the ground until it’s smooth. Standing again, I dust off my hands and rest them loosely across the soft swell of my midsection—one settling there, almost without my permission. A small, unconscious gesture of protection. Of promise.

It remains there as I smile down at my sister’s grave, saying a silent prayer that it’s not her final resting place. That, someday, I will come to her, and we will be together again in death, as we were meant to be in life.

“I love you, Jess,” I whisper.

And then I just let go.

Epilogue

Mary

Two years later

The crunch of gravel makes me start.

It’s early. Earlier than anyone ever drives down this road. I don’t get many planned visitors, and the big Private Property sign up at the main road is usually enough to keep everyone else from straying down here.

Maybe that’s why the sound unsettles me. Or maybe it’s because some part of me has always known that eventually the past grows legs. And there isn’t a sign in the world that’s big enough to deter it from paying you an unexpected visit.

No.

Not possible.

But then they step out, and the breath leaves me like someone just punched a hole in my rib cage.

I’m out the door and standing on the front porch before they’ve even closed theirs.

My parents.

For a moment, all I can do is stare. The last time I saw them, I was still raw from the hospital, from the lies, from Sam’s final hours.

I blink now—slow, disbelieving. Two years shouldn’t change people this much. I wonder if they’re thinking the same thing about me.

They look weathered, worn down in ways that grief makes permanent. Terry’s short, swept-back hair—once meticulously maintained—now carries silver that shines plainly in the morning light. Doug’s brown-silver temples have surrendered almost entirely, his face etched with the kind of lines carved by sleepless nights and too many unanswered prayers.

And yet . . . beneath all that erosion is something steadier. A resolve that wasn’t there before. They seem—strange as it is to think it—stronger.

Different.