Page 100 of Mirror Image

I stared at her, that single word—never—echoing in my head. And then, something darker clicked into place.

“Really?” I said quietly. “Because there’s another little girl you left behind, isn’t there?”

She blinked, confused. “I don’t understand—”

“Yes, you do,” I said evenly. “The real Mary. The baby who died. Where is she buried?”

They froze, glancing at each other in that guilty, wordless way that told me everything.

“I don’t think that’s important,” my father managed finally.

“No grave, huh?” I said, voice rising again. “What did you do—scatter her ashes over some bridge somewhere and say a prayer for her soul, then pretend she never existed, same as you did with Sam?”

My father opened his mouth to speak but then thought better of it. I knew then that I’d guessed correctly.

“No, you couldn’t bury her,” I said quietly as the realization of what they’d done washed over me. “There couldn’t be a grave—in case someone got wind of all this . . . in case Grandpa Lloyd got wind of this. No body, no DNA.”

My mother took a determined step toward me. “We love you. We adore you. We’d give our lives for you, Mary. It doesn’t matter how you came to be ours—the fact is you are ours.”

I couldn’t even find it in myself to maintain the fury. It had been replaced with the kind of deep, unmovable sadness that comes from betrayal. A wound that cut so deep that you wondered if you’d survive it. That you wondered if you wanted to survive it.

“I’m leaving, and I’m taking these with me,” I said, tucking the papers into my bag. “And you won’t contest the trust distribution.” I started for the front door.

“Wait! Where are you going?” my father asked. “You can’t just leave. Not like this . . .”

“Mary!” my mother called after me, sobbing.

I paused then without looking back.

“Your Mary is dead,” I told them and walked out.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Jenn

Sunday evening

I could walk down the hall to Julian’s office. I know he’s still there. But we’re not exactly on the best of terms at the moment. And, besides, what would I say? How would I explain the wild suspicion that’s crept into my mind?

Hey, by the way, you know Sam? The girl who was pretending to be Mary? I think maybe she was really Mary after all.

And there it is.

I think Mary pretended that she was Sam—pretending to be Mary.

It’s absurd.

Isn’t it?

I mean, what reason could there possibly be? If Mary wanted to assume Sam’s identity, she could have done it from the very beginning when they pulled her out of the Everglades. She could have just told the rangers, the EMTs, the doctors—us—that she was Sam and left it at that. I don’t know why she would have wanted to “become” Sam, but there were certainly easier ways to do it.

I’m missing something big here. The problem is you don’t know what you don’t know. Which is why I’ve got every piece of paper from the Mary Langston/Samantha Kinski file spread across my desk. When my phone dings with a text message, it takes me several seconds to locate it under the haphazard pile. When I’ve finally got it, my lock screen just shows that it’s from an unknown number. I almost don’t bother. And then I do.

Meet me @ Blue Heron park. I’ll be sitting by the lake till 7.

I text back asking who it is, but there’s no reply. Not that it matters. I know. And I’m running out of time.

Twenty minutes later I’m speedwalking down an asphalt path. It curves along the water, lit by low amber lamps that will appear brighter as the world darkens around them. The humidity is thick enough to feel weighty, and by the time I reach the small footbridge, my fingers feel tacky on the railing.