Page 50 of Mirror Image

“You always said you’d have to be out of your mind to come back to Miami,” she says, pushing me back to arm’s length so she can get a good look at me. Like I might be an imposter. “And yet—here you are. You look pretty grounded to me.”

“Just for the weekend.”

“Weekend, week, lifetime—it starts the same way.” She thanks the man who slides a tray with two cortaditos and a pair of foil-wrapped Cubanos across the counter, then nods toward the corner. “Come on. Sit. You look like you could use caffeine and carbs.”

We carry our food to a booth with cracked red leather seats and a window view of the street. The café hums around us—spoons clinking, conversations overlapping, the steady hiss of the sandwich press. It feels weirdly comforting, like stepping back into a past life. A simpler one without all the baggage.

Ruth’s already halfway through her coffee by the time I unwrap my sandwich. The smell hits me first—roasted pork, melted Swiss, pickles, mustard, and that buttery pressed bread that could make a believer out of anyone.

“God, I missed these,” I murmur, taking a bite. The crunch echoes through the café. “I’m going to eat as many of these as I can while I’m here.”

Ruth gives me a look. “Don’t tell me you can’t get a Cuban sandwich in Manhattan.”

“Not one that tastes like this,” I say with a grin.

She stirs the sugar at the bottom of her cup and eyes me over the rim. “So. How is it? Being back at Miami Killian after all this time?”

I take another bite to buy a few seconds before answering. “Surreal,” I admit finally. “The building’s been redone, but the ghosts stayed. Some faces changed; others should’ve.”

“Meaning?”

“Julian’s still there. Still walking around like he invented compassion.”

“And Kellogg?”

“Still an arrogant son of a bitch. Only now he’s the boss.”

Her brows shoot up. “Of course he is. That man could trip upstairs and call it a promotion.”

I laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

She takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes narrowing in thought. “You can’t tell me details, I know. But what kind of case brings you back there after all these years? You could’ve said no.”

“Could’ve,” I say, wiping my fingers on a napkin. “Didn’t. It’s . . . complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“High profile. Sensitive. Someone in trouble who reminds me a little too much of who I used to be.” I toy with the edge of my sandwich wrapper. “Let’s just say I’m in a unique position to help—and unique enough that those bastards actually asked me to come back.”

She tilts her head, reading between the lines. “So not just any patient.”

“No. Not just anyone.”

“Well,” she says, sitting back with a little grin, “good. Let them choke on their own hypocrisy for once. You’re exactly the kind of ghost that place deserves.”

I smirk. “You’re the only one who thinks that. Gabe and Stef both tried to talk me out of it. Said I was asking for trouble.”

“That’s because they think trouble’s a bad thing.” She waves a hand. “I say it’s about damn time. You spent years letting that hospital—and those men—write your story. This is you taking it back.” She leans in, eyes bright. “You can’t rewrite what happened, but you can add an epilogue. The ‘happily ever after, you sons of bitches’ chapter. You’re not there to relive it—you’re there to reclaim it.”

I smile despite myself. “You always did know how to weaponize optimism.”

“Not optimism,” she corrects. “Ownership.”

We fall into easier conversation after that, catching up on everything from her brother’s new law firm to her latest batch of high-maintenance clients.

“A hedge-fund manager sued a golf resort because the caddy handed him the wrong club and cost him a charity tournament,” she says, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “That one settled for seven figures.”

She takes another sip of her cortadito, eyes gleaming. “And a politician’s wife sued her plastic surgeon for making her too symmetrical. Said it ruined her relatability.”