"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar."
"Objection. Speculation."
"Overruled." She smiled. "I'm not a jury, Miles. I'm someone who knew you before you learned to hide."
Ouch.
Before I could respond, the waitress appeared, a woman my mother's age who didn't recognize me.
"What can I get you folks?"
"Coffee," Charlotte said. "Black."
"Same." I nodded toward Charlotte. "And whatever pie you have that's least likely to kill us."
The waitress laughed. "Apple's fresh today. Two slices?"
"Please."
She walked away, and Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Pie?"
"We're in a diner. Pie is mandatory. It's the law."
"Is that your legal opinion?"
"It's an established precedent. Diner v. Hungry Patrons, 1957."
She laughed… the same sound that had haunted me for fifteen years. "I forgot you do that."
"Do what?"
"Make me laugh when I'm trying to be serious."
"It's a defense mechanism. Very sophisticated."
"It's annoying."
"Also accurate."
The coffee arrived, and we wrapped our hands around the warm cups. The initial tension eased into something more familiar, a rhythm we'd once known by heart.
"So," she said, blowing gently on her coffee. "Tell me about law. Is it everything your father wanted for you?"
The question was casual, but her eyes were sharp. She remembered. Of course, she remembered.
"It's... fine," I said carefully. "Family law, mostly. Custody battles, estate disputes. Helping people divide their lives into neat, legally binding sections."
"That sounds depressing."
"It's usually someone's worst day. Occasionally their best." I shrugged. "There's satisfaction in getting a fair outcome for someone who couldn't get one on their own."
"That sounds more like the Miles I knew."
"He's in there somewhere. Buried under billable hours and court filings."
She smiled, but it faded slowly. "Can I ask you something?"
