Page 49 of Mirror Image

Cortez took off his glasses and cleaned them with slow, deliberate care. “My understanding is that Dr. Braithwaite has declined to participate.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Declined?” Ruth snapped.

He nodded. “No written statement either,” he added. “His choice entirely.”

That choice hit harder than any accusation. Julian’s silence said more than his words ever could.

When the panel filed out, I opened my mouth to speak, but my attorney shook her head sharply, gesturing toward the still-running recorder on the table.

“Holy hell,” she muttered once the recorder was off. “These people aren’t even pretending to play fair!”

“It’s over,” I whispered, as if they might be lurking in the hallway, ears pressed to the door. “Julian’s absence says everything they need to hear.”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “They expect you to fold. Don’t do it.”

“Ruth, if they find me negligent, my career’s done. Appeal or not, it sticks.”

My attorney leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Now I understand why you felt like you needed me to handle this and not another attorney. You don’t need a defense—you need an offense.”

That steadied me. “Okay. So what’s the move?”

“We find something that puts Kellogg on the defensive. He’s not clean—no one is. Fraud, misconduct, a lie in the paperwork—something.”

I picked up the photocopied chart again, scanning each line once again from the top. Patient name, address, insurance . . .

“What?” Ruth asked, noticing my expression. “What do you see, Jenn?”

I shook my head slowly. “Nothing here. But . . . I don’t know . . . I have a hunch . . .”

“Hunches are your subconscious’s way of telegraphing you a message. What is it trying to tell you?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” she demanded. “Your life is on the line here! What can’t you do?”

My eyes snapped open.

“I can’t call them.”

“Can’t call who?”

“The Millers. Cami’s parents. If what I think might have happened happened, it’s got to come from them. From their paperwork.”

Her lips curved, feral and pleased. “Then that’s where we start.”

I hesitated. “I can’t call them, Ruth. Not after the funeral. Not after what they’ve lost.”

Her expression softened for half a beat before she reached into her bag for her phone. “Then good thing I can.”

And she did.

The smell hits me the instant I push open the café door—strong coffee, buttered bread, frying plantains. And there she is at the counter, slight and sharp as ever, her narrow shoulders squared, her smooth dark hair shot through with a single elegant streak of silver. She moves with that hummingbird snap—fast, focused, impossible to ignore—rattling off instructions to a barista who looks like he’d rather face a firing squad. She spots me before I can wave, smiling and shaking her head.

“What’s that look for?” I ask as we embrace.