Page 123 of Mirror Image

Better.

“Hello, Sam,” my father says carefully, like he’s approaching a skittish animal.

My mother joins him, mirroring his hesitant smile.

I swallow hard. “Um . . . Doug. Terry.” A nod. “Wh-what brings you here?”

I don’t bother asking how they found me. Money can buy a lot of clarity. And it’s not like I buried my trail deep. Maybe, on some subconscious level, I didn’t want to.

Just in case.

Just in case of this.

“May we come in?” my mother asks. “Please?”

May they? I glance nervously at the door behind me.

“Umm . . . How about we sit out here? It’s such a nice day, and the morning sun on the lake is beautiful.”

They turn in unison to look in that direction.

“Oh my,” she breathes. “You’re right. That’s stunning.”

They follow me to the far end of the porch, where I gesture for them to take the two rockers while I settle onto the swing bench that’s mounted into the ceiling. It creaks under my weight—a familiar sound, almost comforting.

I should offer them coffee. Or water. Something. But I just fold my hands and wait because, whatever this is, however it ends, I’m done worrying about this—about them.

“What are you doing here?” I ask—not rudely, but directly. It’s the only way I know anymore.

They glance at each other. My father starts.

“Um, right, well . . . We’re aware of the work you’ve been doing out here . . .”

“The foundation,” she clarifies. “The . . . the Mary Langston Foundation.”

Because of what I did—and the way I did it—my parents believe Sam to be alive and well and living off their daughter’s trust fund. And while pretending that Sam was the one who had survived was necessary for me to do what had to be done, the idea that they thought of her as some gold digger bothered me. A lot.

Naming the foundation after Mary Langston was a way to rehabilitate Sam’s reputation, showing the world that she was using the money for good—and giving Mary the credit. Of course, it felt ridiculous to name it after myself, but then, I wasn’t Mary anymore. And I never will be again. I expected to hear from them at some point, and I hoped they’d be happy about it. What I never expected was for them to show up here in person, out of the blue.

Suddenly it occurred to me that they might be here because they were put off by it. That maybe they thought it was ghoulish . . .

Damn. What would Sam do? How would she react to this?

“I’m not changing the name,” I tell them with my sister’s trademark defiant edge. “My attorney tells me I’m perfectly within my rights to call it that.”

“What? Oh, no! No, no, no,” my father jumps in, waving his raised palms as if he surrendering to the SWAT team. “No, Sam, you misunderstand. We—we’re so . . .” He seems to struggle for the word.

“Moved,” she supplies, choked up. “That you would use that money to honor Mary in this way . . .” The tears move from her voice to her eyes, damp trails running down her cheeks even as she tries to wipe at them with the back of her hand, impatiently. “We want to help.”

“You do?” I’m so surprised that I blurt the question before I can filter it, but I adjust my tone a second later. “You do. I’m not sure that’s a good idea . . .”

“Please hear us out,” Dad says. He glances at her again, then back at me, sighing. “My God, but we owe you an apology.”

“You do?”

Damn! I did it again. This time I don’t bother converting the question to a statement. He does it for me.

“We do. For so many things. More things than we can name.”