Page 37 of Mirror Image

“I didn’t want to leave Doug and Terry alone at a time like this,” he explains softly.

I manage a tight smile. Actually, that would’ve been exactly the point. I’d wanted a clean read on them—no third-party interference, least of all his. Whatever thawing that began back in his armchair has started to reverse course.

Doug rises at once, relief and deference flickering across his face as we approach.

“You must be Dr. Flores. I’m Doug Langston,” the man begins, then gestures toward his wife, who’s still seated. “And this is my wife, Theresa—Terry. Julian’s told us so much about you.”

Has he now?

My old mentor gives that practiced paternal half smile.

“Indeed! Jennifer and I go back a long way. One of the finest residents I ever had.”

My throat feels dry as chalk. “I understand you’ve known Dr. Braithwaite for quite some time.”

“Yes, we’re so grateful for Julian. Thank God we have him to help us navigate this nightmare,” Terry says in the raspy voice of the emotionally exhausted.

Julian lays a hand on her shoulder. “You focus on your daughter, Theresa. Let the rest of us worry about logistics.” His tone is a tranquilizer in human form.

Doug looks at me, desperate. “They still won’t let us see her. Julian says it’s standard, but she’s our child. She won’t even talk to us.”

“She’s frightened,” Julian answers before I can. “And familiar faces can be . . . overwhelming at a time like this. But I can assure you, Mary is in excellent hands with Dr. Flores here.”

“I’ll do everything I can for her,” I tell them, in as comforting a tone as I can manage.

Braithwaite deposits the plate of pastries on the table and grabs his coffee. “I’ll leave you to talk. Call me when you’ve finished, Doug.”

His hand squeezes Doug’s shoulder.

When he leaves the cafeteria, my chest seems to loosen, my lungs expanding more deeply. I offer the Langstons a warm smile. Not that they notice.

“I don’t know what we would have done without that man,” Terry murmurs, watching as he walks away.

I slip into the chair he was occupying before I arrived and use a napkin to wipe away the ring of condensation left behind by his mug and take my first good look at the couple.

Terry Langston is all sharp lines and lean strength, her short salt-and-pepper layers swept back off her face in an easy, no-nonsense style that gives her a trim, slightly boyish look that somehow suits her completely. Beside her, Doug carries more heft than his wife, though not in an unhealthy way—just the sturdy, softened edges that come with middle age. His hair is a mix of brown and silver that looks sun faded rather than aged.

“You seem very close,” I note.

The couple nods in tandem.

“But it wasn’t just that,” Terry Langston pipes up. “Julian was a sort of . . . a peace broker . . . between Doug and his father. They’d had a terrible falling out after we got married . . .”

Doug lets out an incredulous bark of laughter. “Hah! More like Dad had a colossal meltdown! He disowned me. Wrote me out of the will, the whole thing. My father was a miserable man for a long time after my mother died. He hated the world and everyone in it, including me.”

“So what changed?”

“Julian. He knew we’d been trying desperately to have a baby for a few years with no luck. Turns out he sat on the board of a private adoption agency and pulled some strings to get us to the top of the waitlist.”

My jaw tightens. This is a pretty big detail that dear Dr. Braithwaite neglected to share with me. And it explains the vibe I’m getting here—that they see him as a savior, a benevolent hand behind the curtain.

I keep my expression neutral. “That was very generous of him.”

“Julian’s been more than generous,” Terry says. “He’s family.”

I file that away. Family.

And we all know you don’t treat your own family. It’s unethical. And in this hospital—in most every hospital—it’s strictly forbidden.