Page 89 of Mirror Image

I shift in my seat to face him, my anger rising. “Okay, you really need to shut the fuck up now.”

Both men stare at me, wide eyed.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?” Julian demands, echoing Terry Langston’s earlier question.

“I’m pretty sure she just told you to shut the fuck up,” Kellogg replies, folding his arms as he sits back against the back of his chair, an amused smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“I cannot believe you—of all people—would speak to me that way!” my old mentor spits back at me.

“Why? Because I owe you something for bringing me down here to this clusterfuck of a situation? I don’t owe you anything. Not a damn thing.” I turn back toward the desk and Kellogg. “You want my opinion? Well, here it is—this woman’s been through enough. She’s got a life to rebuild, and we should be helping her get out there, not locking her up against her will.”

“At least here I could treat her. I could keep an eye on her,” Julian counters to his boss, ratcheting back on the theatrics.

David looks between us, no trace of the smile on his face anymore. “Julian, even if I thought it was a good idea to admit Samantha Kinski to the psych ward for observation—which I don’t—I sure as hell wouldn’t allow you to do the assessment. You’re way too close to this already. And this . . . this chip-on-your-shoulder thing that you’ve got going on right now? Yeah . . . no. Not gonna happen.” He looks to me. “Dr. Flores, once you’ve written up your report, we’ll put it in the file. Feel free to finish it here or do it when you get back home to New York. Just send it to me along with your invoice. I’ll see it’s paid.”

I wait a long, awkward beat for him to add something else. Something snarky. Something insulting. Something belittling. But it doesn’t come, and I have no choice but to respond.

“Um . . . Yes, of course. I’ll do that.”

“Well, I object to this—all of this. I want that noted for the record,” Julian declares, standing up so he can glower down at me.

I keep my own expression impassive. “Duly noted,” I say.

When he stomps out, slamming the door behind him, I turn back to Kellogg.

“You won’t let him . . .”

“Admit her? No.”

“What if he gets another doctor at another hospital to do it?”

“No, that’s not going to happen, Dr. Flores. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to do a video call with our PR people so we can figure out how we’re going to handle the press.”

I stand. “Right, thank you again . . . for Sam . . .”

He nods curtly. “Not to worry. I’ll see Julian keeps his distance until she’s ready to leave.”

And just like that, the man who’s starred in two decades’ worth of nightmares evaporates. I walk out the door feeling, inexplicably, as if I’ve lost something.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Mary

Two years ago

I’d been living at home for about six months when Sam showed up.

She must have been keeping an eye on the calendar—as well as the house—because she turned up at the gate shortly after my parents left for Langston Pharma’s annual retreat in Key West. She knew the housekeeper would be off and I’d be home alone for the weekend. I saw her on the camera feed as soon as she buzzed the intercom.

“What do you want, Sam?” I asked from my end of the two-way speaker.

“To talk. Let me in?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”