Page 114 of Mirror Image

“You don’t—” His voice cracks again. “You don’t understand what you’re interfering with.”

“I understand perfectly,” I say. “You’ve been hiding behind terminology and theory and your own ego for a long time. But the minute law enforcement has your notes in hand, the translation is going to be . . . illuminating.”

His hands clench at his sides, shaking.

“I made Samantha strong,” he hisses, tapping his own chest with a trembling finger. “I gave her affection. Purpose. I was the architect of Mary Langston’s fairy-tale life. I’ve accomplished more in twenty-five years than the two of you ever will—combined!”

He is shouting now, red faced, breath coming too fast, sweat gathering at his hairline. He looks seconds from unraveling completely.

I have no intention of being here when he does.

We turn to leave. Kellogg pauses, lifts a finger as if remembering something, and turns back.

“In case you missed it, Julian—you’re fired. Your privileges at Miami Killian have been revoked. And I’ve already called the medical licensing board. You’ll never practice again.”

I see it then—the moment it sinks in. Rage collapses into something smaller. Trembling. Fear.

The moment a man realizes the game is over, and he was the last one to know.

There’s no satisfaction in it. Only inevitability.

Back outside, a mockingbird chatters above us, and a lone cicada buzzes awake, its steady drone cutting through the heat.

“Should we wait for the police?” I ask as we walk back to the car.

“Probably.” He glances down at his watch. “Detective Rivera said he’d have someone here within the hour.”

“Yeah, and we might need to call in the fire department too. He’s just unhinged enough to try and burn the place down.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit,” he says as we reach the car and climb into our respective seats.

We sit silently, staring through the windshield at the house, silent and calm despite the bomb that’s just been detonated inside.

I notice him giving me the side-eye.

“What?” I ask.

“Just wondering what you’re smiling at.”

My hand reaches to touch my lips.

“Huh. I didn’t realize I was.”

“Oh yeah. Big ol’ grin. Was that about him?”

I shake my head.

“No. It’s about you.”

“Me?”

I shrug.

“I think I might be starting to like you,” I say, holding up my thumb and forefinger a fraction apart. “Just a little.”

He smiles.

“Well, funny thing that—”