Chapter Twenty-Nine Jenn
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jenn
Sunday morning
The meeting is in the small private conference room adjacent to David Kellogg’s office.
When Julian and I wheel Mary inside, we find Joyce Danner already seated with Doug and Terry Langston—and their attorney, Paul Crane.
He’s a tall, thin man in a charcoal suit, his legal pad open and pen poised as if he’s been taking notes since dawn.
The moment they see Mary, Doug and Terry jolt to their feet.
It’s painfully clear how much effort it takes for them not to rush across the room.
“Oh . . . baby,” Terry whispers, hand flying to her mouth as she takes in the bruising, the swelling, the dried cuts along her daughter’s cheeks.
Crane rests a steadying hand on Terry’s shoulder, murmuring something low—likely reminding her to stay seated.
Julian and I position Mary across the oblong table from them.
Kellogg claims the head of the table; Detective Luis Rivera sits opposite him, young and sharp in his Sunday-duty attire—dark slacks, rolled sleeves, a loosened tie.
His dark hair is neatly trimmed, his eyes steady and kind as he observes the tense almost-reunion with cool, clinical calm.
Not that there is a reunion. Mary doesn’t look at them. Not once. She keeps her gaze on her folded hands, face carefully blank. Once everyone has settled, Kellogg begins.
“Detective Rivera has spoken with Mary, her parents, and their attorney,” Kellogg begins. He gestures toward me. “This is Dr. Jennifer Flores, who has been consulting on Mary’s care. Dr. Julian Braithwaite is the attending overseeing her treatment.”
Rivera offers a polite nod around the table, then leans forward, forearms planted on the glass surface.
“Let me get right to it,” he says. “The medical examiner has ruled Samantha’s death an accident. No indication of foul play.”
Terry releases a strangled sob.
“So . . . how?” Doug asks, squeezing her hand.
“Anaphylaxis,” Rivera says. “Specifically? Snakebite.”
A ripple of shock travels the table in a wave.
Mary looks stunned too—eyes glassy, lips parting softly.
“Dear God,” Julian mutters, rubbing under the bridge of his glasses.
“A snakebite?” Kellogg repeats incredulously. “And this took three days to confirm?”
Rivera doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Given the decomposition, it wasn’t obvious. Mary was incoherent when she was found—talking about leaving Sam in the canoe and trying to hike out alone. Toxicology identified the venom. Diamondback rattler. It would’ve taken hours for systemic collapse.”
He turns to Mary. “Does that sound familiar?”
She shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Not yet. But . . . it fits. She was getting sick.”
“It’s a slow process,” I tell Rivera gently. “She’s coming out of shock and dissociation.”
Doug leans forward, voice trembling. “Oh, Mary, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay. Once you’re ready, everything will go back to the way it was—before . . .”
He trails off, realizing too late that sentence has no safe landing.
Mary lifts her head. Her expression has gone cold. Sharp. Defined.
“Before what, Dad? Before Sam showed up?”
“Your father didn’t mean it like that,” Terry rushes in. “We’re just . . . we’re so sorry this happened to you.”
“Me?” Mary barks out a humorless laugh. “I lived. Sam is dead. And you still can’t cut her a break.”
The silence afterward is suffocating.
Terry recovers first, voice soft but too steady. Controlled.
“Of course we’re sorry Sam is gone. We never would’ve wished—”
“Wouldn’t you, though?” Mary snaps. “Now you can pretend none of this happened. Pretend she never existed.”
“Mary,” I murmur, “I don’t think—”
“No!” she shoots at me, eyes blazing. “You don’t know what they did.”
“I do know,” I say gently. “You told me.”
Doug and Terry’s gazes swing in my direction.
“She told you what, exactly?” Doug asks.
Next to him, Paul Crane stiffens noticeably, tapping his pen once on the legal pad. The motion is soft but pointed.
“That you tried to . . . encourage Sam to leave,” I reply carefully. “And to end her relationship with Mary.”
Their relief is instant—and telling.
If that wasn’t the thing they were scared we knew . . .
What else is waiting under the floorboards?
“Is there something els—” I begin.
“You know what?” Julian cuts in, abruptly rising. His chair screeches across the floor. “This is too much for Mary. We need to get her back upstairs—”
“I said I’m fine,” Mary interrupts, breath hitching. “I just . . . I have a splitting headache.”
“I’ll have the nurse bring something,” I tell her softly. “But for now . . . more coffee might help. Caffeine?”
She nods.
I reach for the carafe. “Light and sweet, right?”
“Yes, please.”
I’m halfway through opening the tiny creamer cups when Terry’s voice slices through the room.
“Since when do you drink creamer?”
I look up. “Is there a problem with creamer?”
“Well, yes,” she replies, tightening. “She’s been vegan since she was a toddler.”
Mary meets her mother’s gaze and deliberately takes a long, slow sip.
“I haven’t been for a while,” she says. “Not that it’s your business.”
Rivera rises. “I’ll leave you folks to talk. We’ll release a statement in a few hours. And Mary—the Me needs your decision regarding Samantha’s remains.”
“Cremate her,” Doug blurts, a little too loudly.
Rivera’s eyebrow lifts. “It’s Mary’s call.”
Mary’s face reddens beneath the bruising.
“Jesus fucking Christ! You can’t even give her a funeral?” she spits. “What happened to those Christian values you’re always preaching?”
The room goes very still.
If Mary’s reaction is a furious outburst, her mother’s is a silent, quaking rage.
Terry Langston’s eyes narrow, her lips draw thin and tight, and her brows pitch downward sharply. “What did you just say?” she asks in what has to be the most menacing whisper I’ve ever heard.
I sense rather than see Mary still.
“Terry?” Doug murmurs from next to his wife, clearly thinking he’s missed something.
“What did you just say to us?” she demands again, louder.
Paul Crane leans over to whisper something to Terry, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
She’s begun to tremble—but not in a way I’ve ever seen before. Even Terry’s teeth seem to be chattering as she stares Mary down, unblinking, her chest starting to rise and fall more quickly.
“I didn’t . . .” Mary starts quietly, then stops, shaking her head. “I mean, I don’t know . . .”
Something’s happening that I don’t understand.
“Terry? You need to calm down, sweetheart—”
His wife spins on him so quickly that he actually rolls back a few feet in his chair to put some distance between them.
“Don’t you see it?”
“See what, honey?”
When Terry speaks again, her voice pierces the entire room.
“That is not our daughter. That’s. Not. Mary!”