Page 18 of Mirror Image

Traffic slowed around us, the crawl almost a standstill—but not quite.

“Sam, please,” I whispered.

She unbuckled.

“Don’t—” My heart slammed against my ribs.

But her hand was already on the door handle. Even at five, maybe ten miles an hour, the idea of her stepping out made my stomach drop.

“Sam, just—wait!”

The door cracked open.

She jumped.

Chapter Seven

Jenn

Friday morning

Primum non nocere.

First, do no harm.

That’s the Hippocratic oath—taken by all doctors. We have to swear to consider the consequences of our actions and treatment. In other words, we have to promise not to make things any worse for the patient than they already are. Too bad we make no such promise to ourselves.

I’d never in a million years recommend one of my clients hop on a plane and head right back to the place that scarred them. Not without months—maybe even years—of preparation in the office. Because walking back into the “scene of the crime” without proper preparation is like walking into the wilds of Alaska in January without a coat. In flip-flops. And a tank top.

Foolish at best, suicidal at worst.

And yet here I am.

The campus of Miami Killian Medical Center looks pristine—perfect hedges, tropical greenery, glass-faced buildings gleaming like they’ve never known rot. But I remember when this place reeked of mildew and despair. The psychiatric center, once referred to as the catacombs because of its dark, dank, claustrophobic interiors, now boasts an atrium with vaulted ceilings and a gurgling water wall.

My heels click on the marble floor as I make my way to the reception desk. I’ve dressed for battle—tailored black suit, hair in a tight bun, my expression calm and composed. Controlled. Professional.

I have the sudden, nearly uncontrollable urge to snap the band on my wrist. But I keep my hand low now, in case Julian is somewhere nearby watching. He’d recognize the gesture instantly.

“Good morning. May I help you?” asks a young man stationed in front of a computer at the main desk.

“Good morning. Dr. Jennifer Flores for Dr. Braithwaite,” I say, handing him my license before he can ask; better to stay one step ahead.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he responds pleasantly, holding it in one hand while scrolling down his computer screen with the other. “Uh-huh. I’ve got you right here. Would you look directly into the lens, please?”

He’s pointing at a camera mounted atop his monitor. I smile. He clicks. A moment later a printer behind him hums to life, and he spins around just in time to pluck my new ID from the tray and affix it to a lanyard.

“Wow, that’s impressive,” I say as he hands me my new necklace, still warm from the machine that created it.

“We take security pretty seriously around here,” he explains. “Please keep that on at all times while in the building. Next time, you don’t need to stop here. Just scan the card against the black pad mounted on the wall by the door over there. Someone from Dr. Braithwaite’s team will let you know what you can access internally.”

“Right. Okay, thanks . . .”

“Jennifer!”

The sound of my name freezes me in place. Still facing the receptionist, I close my eyes and take a long breath. Then I smooth my expression—pleasant but neutral—before turning around.

He looks almost exactly as I remember: tall, trim, immaculate in his white coat and bow tie, the same crooked front tooth softening an otherwise patrician face. His blue-gray eyes still radiate that gentle, well-trained warmth—the kind only years of British bedside manner can perfect.