Page 32 of Mirror Image

The room seemed to tilt as the hand not holding the phone flew to my mouth.

“Oh . . . oh my God . . .” I whispered. “I told him. I told Kellogg she needed to be admitted, but he wouldn’t listen . . .”

“Do you have an attorney, Dr. Flores?”

“What? No! And residents are covered under the hospital’s insurance, right?”

Her voice dropped, suddenly cautious. “Jenn, listen to me carefully because I won’t say this again—and I’ll deny it if you tell anyone I did. When you hang up this phone, get yourself a good attorney. Do not wait, and do not speak to anyone but that person. Do you understand?”

“But I talked to Dr. Braithwaite this morning—”

“No one,” she snapped, then shifted back to her professional tone as if the outburst had never happened.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped listening. Cami was dead, and I was already the scapegoat.

“Thank you,” I managed before hanging up and sprinting for the bathroom, barely making it before the vomiting started.

When there was nothing left, I curled on the cool tile, cheek pressed to the floor, until the sunlight through the window dimmed to gray and the cicadas began outside. Then I pushed myself up, found my phone, and made the only decision that felt possible.

I didn’t care what Maggie said. Julian Braithwaite was the only person who could make this go away. And I knew he would never let me down.

How wrong I’d been. Even a decade later, I still cringe at my own naivete.

Friday morning

A door clicks shut somewhere down the hall, and the sound pulls me back to now—to Julian’s office, the smell of his bergamot tea and leather bindings. He looks every bit the kindly, fatherly professor. The illusion owes a lot to the setting. Where Kellogg’s office was all glass and sunlight, Julian’s is a study in comfort. The blinds are drawn against the harsh Miami glare, and the light is warm, amber, forgiving. Bookcases climb to the ceiling, and a pair of well-worn armchairs sit tucked in the corner.

I’m sitting in one now as he joins me, carrying one of his trademark red leather notebooks. At first glance he looked almost unchanged, but now that we’re alone and I have a chance to really study him, I can see the subtle wear: the faint looseness around his jaw, the softened line of his shoulders, the way he settles into his chair with a sigh he probably doesn’t realize he made.

“Still using the red journals,” I note.

He smiles, sheepish. “Yes, though I have to order them custom these days—the company went under years ago.”

“Still one for every patient?”

He nods. “One per patient, per year. Hardly high tech, but it keeps my thoughts organized—and off the grid.”

“Well, you’ve got a point there.”

He clears his throat and gestures toward my arm. “And I see you’ve kept one of your old habits. Still need it?”

I glance down at the pink elastic peeking from under my sleeve.

“I do this week.”

My dry tone earns a quick, genuine laugh from him—an echo from another life. I can’t help smiling back.

“I’m glad you came,” he says at last, earnest now. “I wasn’t at all certain you would.”

“Neither was I.”

“I know you won’t believe this, but it makes me very happy to see how well you’re doing. You’ve become an exceptional doctor, Jenn. Truly.”

“Yes, well. I’m sure you expected otherwise.”

“What? No!”

I hold up a hand. “Come on, Julian. Ten years isn’t long enough to pretend nothing happened. You knew exactly what went down, and you still backed Kellogg.”