Page 44 of Mirror Image

He continues, almost boastful now. “There’s a private bistro with cooked-to-order meals, a spa, library, outdoor terrace, even a small business center for family members. Patients never have to leave the floor—there’s dedicated imaging and a secure corridor to the OR wing.”

I shake my head. “And here I thought hospitals were supposed to smell like antiseptic.”

Julian chuckles. “Not this one. Not when there’s a full-time homeopath on staff to see to the aromatherapy.”

Unbelievable.

He stops at a door marked Hibiscus Suite and knocks softly before opening it. Inside stands a nurse in a crisp white tunic edged with navy piping. Her badge reads Shannon. Her muted red hair is twisted up neatly, and her curvy frame gives her an easy, approachable presence. For half a second I think she looks familiar, but the feeling slips away before I can place it. Hundreds of people work in this hospital; plenty of them could still be here after all these years.

“Good morning, Dr. Braithwaite,” she says.

The words are pleasant enough, but her tone—and her face—are all ice.

Huh. Someone’s definitely not a fan of my old mentor.

The room looks nothing like a hospital suite. It’s a hotel penthouse that just happens to contain medical equipment. Damask bedding, gauzy drapes filtering soft sunlight, a wall-mounted flatscreen looping Impressionist art. A small reading nook is tucked into one corner, the bookshelf stocked with hardcovers.

Seated there, her legs curled under a fuzzy blanket, is a girl—pale, bandaged, her eyes wide and wary. The few unmarked patches of skin are chalk white.

Julian’s tone shifts as he approaches, the softness in his voice almost rehearsed. “Good morning, Mary. I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

Her gaze flickers between him and me. She knows him—of course she does. The family friend, the longtime confidant, the man who helped orchestrate her adoption and probably their donation to this hospital.

“Remember I told you about Dr. Flores? She’s come down from New York. She’ll be helping us for a little while.”

Helping us. Not helping you.

“Hi, Mary,” I say gently, keeping my voice even. I want her to hear the difference. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to spending some time together—if that’s okay with you.”

She doesn’t respond. Just pulls the blanket closer, turning toward the window.

I can almost feel the weight of her silence. She’s been through something terrible—something words can’t reach. And even if they could, she probably assumes there isn’t anyone who could possibly understand.

But then, I’m not just anyone, am I?

Julian clears his throat beside me. “It’s all right, Mary. Just rest. We’ll come back a little later.”

There’s something in his tone—calm, commanding, proprietary—that rubs me the wrong way. It’s hard to tell if it’s my instincts flagging me or if it’s just my irritation with him. Either way, I choose to ignore his cue to leave the same way we came in. I didn’t come all this distance to not even try.

Moving closer to her chair, I crouch slightly, bringing myself level with her. “You don’t have to talk. Not to me, not to anyone. But it might help. And I promise you, Mary, whatever you say is in strictest of confidence. I can’t—and I won’t—discuss anything you tell me with anyone. Not the police, not your parents.” I glance back over my shoulder and up at Julian. “No one you don’t give me permission to speak with.” My eyes swivel back to meet and hold hers. “I’m going to leave a card with my cell number. I’ll be here till Monday—you can call or text me anytime, day or night. But only if you want to. No one is going to be angry with you if you don’t. I won’t be offended. You can trust me.”

When I utter those last four words, I know I’m not just speaking to Mary Langston. I’m also sending a message to the man standing behind me.

They’re the same words he once said to me.

Only when I say them, I mean them.

Chapter Sixteen

Mary

Four and a half years ago

Our instructor, a fortysomething ex–US Forest Service guy who went by the name “Ranger Rick,” looked like he just stepped out of one of those survival reality shows. Dressed in khaki cargo pants, a matching button-down shirt with the North American Wilderness Academy logo, and hiking boots, he was exactly the kind of rugged, weatherworn character you’d expect to find at a place like this.

Our sixty-day course started off with a PowerPoint presentation in a dark, stuffy auditorium, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open as he took us through an overview of the “adventure” to come. NAWA was never on my radar before Sam introduced me to the organization, but I was becoming excited at the prospect of spending two months out in nature, away from all the technology.

“This afternoon,” Ranger Rick was saying, “we’ll get you outfitted with backpacks, tents, cookware, and all the other essentials. Starting tomorrow you’ll get some training in basic camp skills like making fires, cooking, and, yes, waste disposal. Ladies, there’ll be a special breakout session that covers menstruation best practices . . .”