Chapter Thirty-Nine Jenn
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jenn
Sunday evening
I could walk down the hall to Julian’s office. I know he’s still there. But we’re not exactly on the best of terms at the moment. And, besides, what would I say? How would I explain the wild suspicion that’s crept into my mind?
Hey, by the way, you know Sam? The girl who was pretending to be Mary? I think maybe she was really Mary after all.
And there it is.
I think Mary pretended that she was Sam—pretending to be Mary.
It’s absurd.
Isn’t it?
I mean, what reason could there possibly be?
If Mary wanted to assume Sam’s identity, she could have done it from the very beginning when they pulled her out of the Everglades.
She could have just told the rangers, the EMTs, the doctors—us—that she was Sam and left it at that.
I don’t know why she would have wanted to “become” Sam, but there were certainly easier ways to do it.
I’m missing something big here. The problem is you don’t know what you don’t know.
Which is why I’ve got every piece of paper from the Mary Langston/Samantha Kinski file spread across my desk.
When my phone dings with a text message, it takes me several seconds to locate it under the haphazard pile.
When I’ve finally got it, my lock screen just shows that it’s from an unknown number. I almost don’t bother. And then I do.
Meet me @ Blue Heron park. I’ll be sitting by the lake till 7.
I text back asking who it is, but there’s no reply. Not that it matters. I know. And I’m running out of time.
Twenty minutes later I’m speedwalking down an asphalt path. It curves along the water, lit by low amber lamps that will appear brighter as the world darkens around them. The humidity is thick enough to feel weighty, and by the time I reach the small footbridge, my fingers feel tacky on the railing.
I pause and scan the length of the lakeside path.
Save for a few dedicated joggers, the park has mostly emptied with the waning light and waxing mosquitoes.
It takes me only a moment to spot her sitting on one of the metal benches facing the water.
The hospital loungewear has been replaced by jeans and a hoodie that must be roasting in this warm, sticky air.
A Marlins cap is pulled low over her now-brown hair—a soft, warm shade that makes her blue eyes stand out even in the dimming light.
Just enough of a transformation that someone could glance right over her without a second thought. Hidden in plain sight.
When she clocks me approaching, her posture changes—shoulders lifting, head jerking slightly as her eyes dart to either side, like she’s checking whether I’ve arrived with backup.
“You left without saying anything,” I say when I reach the bench.
“Yeah, well, I’m not one for the big emotional goodbyes, you know? Never was.”
“You sure about that, Mary?”
She goes very still. “You mean Sam.”
I ignore the correction and take a seat beside her. “Did you really think no one would figure it out?”
“Figure what out?”
“Who you are. Who you really are.”
“You were in that meeting this morning,” she fires back. “Pretty sure we all agreed I’m Sam.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what you wanted us to agree.”
She scowls. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It was pretty brilliant, actually. You pretended to be Sam—pretending to be Mary.”
She barks a disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck are you on about, lady?”
“I wish I knew,” I say honestly. “Because for the life of me, I cannot think of a reasonable explanation.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“By going to Miami Killian, where your family has connections, you ensured your parents would be called in.”
“Okay, no,” she counters. “I woke up there. I didn’t ask to go.”
It’s a fair point, but the momentum has already built.
“And the meat thing was genius,” I say. “Subtle. You were waiting for someone to catch it—that this supposed vegan kept ordering nonvegan lunches. But no one did. What you didn’t plan on was someone noticing you tossed every single one untouched.”
Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t deny it.
“That was my first clue. But when that didn’t work, you leaned harder. This morning? You let the veneer slip. The cursing, the irreverence—the exact things your mother hates most about Sam. You didn’t do that for me. You did it for them.”
She shifts on the bench, agitation rolling off her in waves. “Okay, you know what? This was a mistake. We’re done.”
She keeps glancing toward the footbridge, toward the dark water, as though each direction offers an escape hatch that refuses to open.
“You could’ve declined to see them,” I say. “You didn’t. You wanted them to recognize the wrong twin.”
She snaps her head toward me. “Why would you think I wouldn’t want them to know?”
“Because you’re running from something,” I say plainly. “And you don’t want Doug and Terry to know you’re their daughter. But I don’t understand why. You’re an adult. They can’t make you do anything.”
Her shoulders sag, just barely.
“No,” she says quietly. “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me.”
She looks away, blinking hard, as if weighing how much truth she can risk.
“You think Mary had some perfect life,” she says. “The doting parents, the expectations, the plans. Maybe they love her. Maybe they mean well. But they’ll never understand what she has to do.”
“Is that who we’re talking about? Doug and Terry?”
“Maybe,” she says. “Theoretically.”
“And what exactly does she—whoever—have to do?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Because Sam? Sam can move through the world without anyone paying attention. Sam can disappear.”
I throw my hands up. “But that’s ridiculous. Mary is a grown woman. She can go wherever she wants. She’s—”
She interrupts, voice suddenly sharp: “Have you ever seen Die Hard?”
I blink. The left turn is jarring, but I nod. “Yes. Of course.”
“End of the movie,” she says. “Hans Gruber tells McClane: ‘When you steal $600 million, they will find you—unless they think you’re already dead.’”
I open my mouth to ask what the hell that has to do with anything—
But then it hits me.
If Doug and Terry think Mary is gone . . .
If they believe Sam survived instead . . .
Then Mary—the Mary she truly is—can slip off the map entirely.
Oh my God. It’s tragic. And it’s brilliant.
She gives a small, weary smile when she sees the understanding finally settle into me. “Not easy, though. Pretending to be someone pretending to be someone else. Leaving breadcrumbs—just enough to follow, not enough to question.”
I stare at her. “Why am I here?”
She takes a breath, steadying herself. “Because I need help.”
“Then come back to the hospital,” I say. “Whatever this is, we’ll—”
“No,” she says sharply. “I’m not going back.”
“What? But why?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“How can I help you if I don’t know?”
She reaches down and hauls up a cobalt shopping bag. It thuds heavily on the bench between us.
“You begin here.”
I open the top and feel my breath vanish.
Red leather.
Dozens of journals. Julian’s journals.
Realization flashes through me like a bolt of lightning, and suddenly Shannon’s words echo in my ears:
“. . . he barely even looked up from whatever he was writing in his little notebook . . .”
A notebook.
Kellogg never used one.
Not when I was a resident.
Not now.
He typed, dictated, tapped at tablets.
Always digital. Always efficient.
But Julian . . .
Julian wrote everything down.
It wasn’t Kellogg she went to after that night.
It wasn’t Kellogg who told her to keep quiet.
My mouth goes dry.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Not Kellogg,” I murmur to myself more than her. “Julian.”
Her brow wrinkles.
“You mean Dr. Kellogg? No. He doesn’t have anything to do with this. He’s been very kind to me, actually.”
My mind races as I stare down at the bag full of secrets.
“H-how did you even get these? He keeps them at home under lock and key.”
She shrugs. “I told you, I spent summers organizing his office for him. Lucky for me he’s a creature of habit. Same spare key under the same garden gnome. Same closet combination. Same filing system from when I was thirteen. Some people never change.”
I exhale shakily.
“Mary—Sam—what am I looking at here . . . what’s in these?”
“A story.”
I look up to find her watching me.
“A story? What kind of story?”
“A scary one,” she says, dead serious as she drops her voice. “The kind with monsters under the bed. Like a nightmare you never wake from.”
“Okay, tell me, then.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. There isn’t time. I have to leave here. Tonight. Now. I should’ve been gone already because once he realizes these are missing, he’s going to come after me.”
My fingers rise to my temples as I shake my head, unable to process everything she’s saying and not saying. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
But, in the end, does that really matter?
I make a snap decision that it does not. My hands fall away, and I level my gaze on hers, willing her to feel my sincerity.
“Tell me what you need from me.”
“Read,” she says, putting a hand atop the bag with the books. “It’s all there. Every vile thing spelled out in his own handwriting. Then you’ll understand what I need to do, and, hopefully, you’ll know how to help me do it.”
I don’t bother asking her to clarify again. She’s not going to tell me any more than she already has.
I swallow. “All right. I’ll take these back to the hospital and—”
She grabs my shoulders, not roughly, but with urgency. Her eyes pin mine.
“No. He might see them, and he can’t know what I’ve done—not yet. You need to take these somewhere safe. Dr. Flores, swear you won’t tell him anything about this conversation.”
It comes out more as a plea than a demand.
“I—yes—sure—”
“Swear it.”
Her intensity steals my breath.
“I swear.”
She releases me slowly. Then lifts her duffel.
“I’m going to lay low for a while,” she tells me. “And I’ve ditched my phone, but I’ll reach out when I can.”
“Can’t you give me any more than that? I still don’t understand.”
“You will,” she says nodding toward the bag on the bench. “When you read.”
And then she turns and walks away, leaving me with a bag full of his handwriting and the sinking realization that I’ve just stepped into someone else’s war.