Page 53 of Mirror Image

Her smile evaporated, and she blinked up at our guide dazedly.

“What-what happened?” she asked in a shaking voice.

I gaped at her, too stunned to say anything.

“Richard hit you,” Leo told her grimly.

“He . . . he did?”

Holy hell, she was good at this. It made me wonder how many times she’d manipulated me into believing something. I hoped I was less gullible—and hotheaded—than this guy, but still . . .

“Sam, I’ve called headquarters. They’re sending a couple of rangers to arrest him for assault, and they’re asking if we need to medivac you out to the hospital.”

“What?” she gasped convincingly, shaking her head, even as she pressed the bloody bandana to her nose. “Oh, no, no . . . I’m fine, really. I don’t want to leave. If they could maybe get me an ice pack, though, that’d be great. Arresting him—that’s really serious.” My sister lowered her voice. “I think I might have provoked him. You know, unwittingly. I mean, I thought it was just some good-natured ribbing, but . . .”

Leo’s face was stony as he took in Sam’s rapidly swelling mouth. “I don’t care what you said to him—putting hands on another person is strictly prohibited. It’s NAWA policy to file a police report and, if warranted, press charges. This is warranted. Besides, no way he can stay here. No one will feel safe with him. No, he’s out of here.”

I watched him walk away, returning to the spot where Richard sat on the ground, glowering in our direction as Izzy and Martin stood scowling down at him. He’d be gone before nightfall.

So evil! So brilliant!

I had never been prouder to have Sam for a sister than I was at that moment.

Chapter Nineteen

Jenn

Friday afternoon

Hospitals have a rhythm I understand: the hum of fluorescent lights, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, the whispered gossip at nurses’ stations. They’re full of pain, but also of people trying to make sense of it. That, I guess, is what keeps me here.

People assume psychiatrists choose this field because they’re fascinated by the mind. Maybe some are. I chose it because I’ve lived with the aftermath of trauma long enough to recognize it when I see it. After my sister died, I became the walking embodiment of what everyone else was too polite to call survivor’s guilt. I wanted answers no one could give me—why her and not me, what made one life tip over the edge while the other went on.

At first, I thought medicine might give me control over chaos. Psychiatry, though—that was different. It wasn’t about saving lives so much as salvaging them. The mind is a mess of bruises you can’t see. But if you listen closely enough, you can sometimes trace where the damage started.

That’s what drew me to adolescents and young adults. They’re still pliable, still forming, still at that fragile point where one decision—or one person—can change everything. They remind me of who I was before everything broke, and of who I might’ve become if someone had known how to reach me.

My grandparents raised me to believe that helping others was how you paid rent for your own second chance. They never said it in so many words, but I knew what they meant: Do some good with the time you’ve been given. I try. Some days, it even works.

I’m kicking myself all the way up the elevator for leaving the hospital in the first place—rookie mistake. The farther I go, the longer it takes to get back. And the more time that passes, the greater the chance she’ll change her mind.

When I stick my head into the partially open door of the Hibiscus Suite, Nurse Shannon is waiting.

“Go right on in,” she says with a kind smile—kinder than the one she gave Julian. “Mary’s expecting you.”

That alone feels like progress.

Her room is quiet, the curtains half drawn against the afternoon glare. She’s moved from the armchair to her bed, a tray on her lap with the remains of a ham sandwich and a few untouched chips. The crusts are stacked neatly to one side, the meat picked apart, as if she lost interest halfway through. Her skin’s still sallow, lips cracked, hair limp and uneven where someone’s brushed it out but not styled it. There’s a rawness about her—something both feral and fragile.

When she sees me lingering in the doorway, she looks wary but not openly hostile.

“You can come in,” she says finally.

“Thanks.” I stop beside the empty chair near the window. “Mind if I sit?”

She shrugs. “Go ahead.”

I lower myself into the seat, keeping my tone light. “I really appreciate you agreeing to talk today. I know you’ve been through more than most people could handle in a lifetime.”