Page 8 of Mirror Image

“You should,” he cautions. “You know I’ve done a few of these, and it’s not always what you think it’s going to be, Jenn. It might not be a get-in, get-out kind of situation.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I assure him. “I’ll fly back here for sessions if I have to. Or do more virtual therapy—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What, then? Gabe, honey, please just spit it out because I don’t have the energy for any more of your loaded questions. What part of this is worrying you?”

“The ‘you’ part of it, Jenn. I don’t know Mary Langston, and quite frankly, she’s not my concern. But you are. And I don’t like this one bit. Not the part where you’re getting involved in a high-profile case. Not the part where you’ll be doing a deep psychological dive into a woman whose issues are bound to stir up some difficult memories for you. Not the part where you’re working with a man you trusted and adored right up until the moment he simultaneously threw you under the bus and to the wolves.”

“How does that work, exactly?” I snark. “Does the bus get me first, then the wolves? Or does the bus run me over after the wolves are finished picking the flesh from my bones? Or does the bus take out me and the wolves at the same time . . . ?”

“It’s not funny,” my husband replies, not buying into my sarcasm. “You’ve spent a lot of years trying to put that shit hospital and its shit doctors behind you. Hell, Jenn, you were still having nightmares up until a couple of years ago! Now you’ve finally made a good life for yourself, and you want to go back there? Do you think anything will have changed in that time? Do you think he’ll have changed in that time? Because you know as well as I do, people like that don’t change. So if you’re thinking you’ll go there for some closure or as part of some twisted sense of pride—to prove something to yourself or, worse, to someone else . . . Just don’t. Okay? Don’t. Because I met the woman who barely survived that shit show ten years ago, and I like this version of you much better.”

I take a long, slow sip to buy myself a few seconds, looking at him over the rim of the wineglass. Everyone thinks my husband is this happy-go-lucky, fun-loving guy. And he is. When he’s just . . . Gabe. But a lot of the time he’s not Gabe. A lot of the time, he’s Dr. Gabriel Slater. And that guy is a whole other kettle of fish. He’s serious and intense. Dr. Slater isn’t listening to the stuff people say but don’t mean. He’s listening for the stuff people mean but don’t say. And he’s got excellent hearing. It’s because of this that I don’t even bother trying to hide things from him.

“I don’t know. Hearing Braithwaite’s voice after all these years—it was jarring, for sure. But . . .”

“But?”

“But I didn’t, you know . . . I stayed calm.”

“You mean you didn’t have a panic attack.”

“Yeah, sure, no doubt the sound of his voice took me back there—but just for, like, a second. Then I remembered what you used to tell me whenever I had one of those awful dreams: He can’t hurt me anymore. None of them can. Not him, not any of those sons of bitches down there.” I pause a second to consider what I’ve just admitted to him and to myself before drawing a conclusion.

He waits.

“So I guess there is some of that in there. Of course I’d like to show him that I survived—that I thrived—in spite of what he did to me. I think it would be weird if there weren’t some of that, right? Isn’t that human nature? But honestly, Gabe, I was ready to hang up on him until he told me about the patient and the case. That’s what made me hear him out. And that’s what’s making me give this some serious thought.”

His eyes scour my face, looking for any hint that I might be lying. Not to him, but to myself. Once he’s finally satisfied, his face relaxes, and he nods once. “Right. Okay, then, I’ve got your back.”

I scoff. “Please, you’d have had my back even if I told you I was headed down there with a suitcase full of dynamite and a match.”

My husband grins and shrugs. “Yeah, probably,” he agrees and nods in the direction of my plate. “Now hurry up and eat that. I seem to recall you wanted me to show you something in the bedroom after dinner.”

I put down the wine and stand up, grabbing the slice of pizza so I can tear a chunk out of it with my teeth. Then I toss it back down onto the plate and dust the crumbs from my hands.

“Done,” I declare with an impish smile as I turn around and go deeper into the apartment.

He’s right there behind me.

Just like always.

Sleep comes, but peace doesn’t.

I’m on the beach. The light is softer here, pink on the water, the horizon blurring into haze. Jess runs ahead of me, bare feet kicking up sand, her laughter carried off by the wind. She’s chasing something—a gull, a wave, a dare—something I can’t see but that she’s certain she’ll catch.

“Slow down!” I call.

She glances back, grinning, hair plastered to her temples, the strap of her swimsuit slipping off one shoulder. “You’re so slow, Jenny! You’ll never keep up if you don’t move.”

She’s the only one who calls me Jenny.

She spins, arms out, fearless as always, the sun flashing off her teeth. “Race you!”

“You always win,” I tell her, but I start running anyway.

My twin came into this world under a lucky star. By the time I arrived seven minutes later, there was nothing left but a restless sky.