Page 54 of Mirror Image

She shifts the tray off her lap. “I’m not sure how much talking I can do. I’m just . . . tired. And my head won’t stop pounding.”

“Yeah, that’s normal. You were severely dehydrated. It’ll take time for your body to even things out. I’ll check with your doc about getting you something for the headache.”

After a long silence, I add softly, “I’m so sorry about Sam.”

She studies me, cautious but curious. “Thank you,” she says at last. “You’re the first one to say that.” Her gaze drops to her lap. “It’s like I keep forgetting it happened. Just for a while. But then it hits again—like a gut punch.”

When she reaches up to wipe her tears, I notice the IV line taped to the back of her hand—a quiet reminder she’s far from well.

“You’re in shock,” I tell her gently. “Not just over her death—over everything you survived out there. If the ranger hadn’t found you when he did . . . well, it’s miraculous you’re here at all.”

She shakes her head. “No miracle. Just luck. It’s always been that way between us. I’m the one who gets the breaks—first in life, and now in death.”

There’s no textbook for this. No baseline. I’m meeting her where she is, trying to read her in real time, knowing every word could be the wrong one.

“You should know,” I tell her, “whatever you say stays between us. I don’t report to Dr. Braithwaite or your parents. I’m here for you.”

She arches an eyebrow. “They’re paying you, though. Right?”

“Indirectly. The hospital bills them, but that’s not the point. My loyalty’s to you. But I did meet with them this morning.”

Her tone goes dry. “Yeah? What’d they want?”

“What do you mean? They didn’t want anything. They’re worried about you.”

“If you say so.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

She shrugs. “There’s always an agenda with them. If they want to talk to you, they want something. Probably information.”

“Well, they won’t get it.”

She exhales, almost amused. “Can we maybe not talk about them right now?”

I lift my hands in surrender. “Of course.”

After a pause, she glances toward the door. “Hey . . . are the police around here somewhere?”

“Um, I don’t know. I haven’t seen any. Why?”

She shifts uneasily. “I think I talked to a woman cop in the ER, right after they brought me in. But I was so out of it.”

“You don’t remember what you said?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Not really. I was hallucinating out there—I couldn’t tell what was real.”

I make a mental note to follow up with Joyce about her statements. “Did they scare you? Threaten you?”

Her lips press together, as if the wrong word might break her.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me.”

She exhales. “No, they didn’t. It was fine. They were the ones who told me Sam was dead. I didn’t know until then. I’d hoped—but . . .” She swallows hard. “They did want to know about our relationship.”

“What about it?”

She hesitates. “We didn’t always get along.”