Page 93 of Mirror Image

“Dr. Flores, was the young woman in here your patient? Mary Langston?”

I don’t bother correcting the name. “She is. Do you know what happened to her?”

“No, ma’am. I was wondering the same. She was so sweet—most patients up here barely look at me. But Miss Langston, she liked to chat. I was happy when she asked me to come twice a day. Just lovely.”

“Yes,” I murmur. “She is.”

“Well, thank you again—I’ll take one of these”—he shakes the bag of food—“over one of these any day.” He lifts the trash bag in his other hand.

Something about the way it shifts catches my attention.

“Wow, that seems pretty heavy for bathroom trash,” I say, instincts prickling.

“Oh, that’s just the food,” he says casually.

“The . . . food? In the bathroom trash?”

He nods. “Yes’m. Picked it up twice a day. Poor thing couldn’t stand the smell.”

“Right,” I say, though nothing about this feels right. “Every day?”

“Well, she was only here a few days. But yeah. Once after lunch, once after dinner. Figured she couldn’t stomach heavy meals. Thought about suggesting broth, maybe crackers, but I didn’t want to be nosy.”

I search my memory:

A nibbled sandwich Friday.

A protein shake Saturday.

Barely a bite of pastry today.

None of this fits.

“Did you notice what kind of food she was tossing?” I ask.

“Oh sure. Cheese, pepperoni scraped off pizza . . . and a beautiful piece of skirt steak—primo cut! Not a single bite taken.”

And then, quietly, everything begins to click.

Ordering meals a vegan heiress wouldn’t touch.

Discarding the evidence.

Maintaining a performance Julian would recognize instantly if she slipped.

Clever, clever girl.

“Thank you, Jeffrey. Enjoy the burger,” I tell him.

“Oh, I will!” He gives a delighted wave as he heads out. “Gonna take my break early while it’s still warm!”

And then the room feels impossibly empty.

Sam gone.

The bed stripped.

The air scrubbed of any trace she’d ever been here.