Page 10 of Borrowed Pain
"Three," I whispered. "Maybe four. I thought it was a coincidence. Trauma survivors naturally seek more intensive help when they're ready, but—"
"It's not a coincidence." Rowan's voice was flat, certain. "You've been carrying this guilt alone for eighteen months, Dr. McCabe, but Iris wasn't your fault. She was their victim. And she's not the only one."
I glanced around, warm and a little crowded. A group of college students had claimed the table beside us, their conversation about weekend plans almost obscene in its normality after what Rowan implied.
"You're saying it's something organized? That someone is deliberately targeting—"
"I'm saying you need to see what I've been tracking." He glanced around the increasingly busy café, then back at me. "But not here. Too many ears."
My rational mind knew I should ask more questions, demand details, and insist on proceeding cautiously. The part of me that had been choking on guilt for eighteen months was already nodding.
"I have files," Rowan continued, finishing his coffee in one swallow. "Evidence. Photos. Things that will help you understand what really happened to Iris."
He stood, reaching for his jacket. "My apartment has better privacy."
My brain short-circuited. He might as well have said, "Taylor Swift's house is right this way."
I should have hesitated. Should have insisted on public spaces and professional boundaries.
But Rowan Ashcroft—the Rowan Ashcroft—was inviting me into his private space. The voice that kept me company through my dark nights wanted to show me something. The impossibility of it made my head spin.
He waited, patient but not pushing. He understood this was a choice that mattered, and once I crossed this line, there'd be no pretending our connection was only professional.
I was about to enter the private world of a man I'd fantasized about for months, armed with evidence about a lost client.
"This isn't—" I started, then stopped. "I'm not sure this is appropriate."
"Appropriate for what?" His gray-green eyes held mine steadily. "For a therapist who's been carrying guilt that isn't his? If you come, we treat this like an off-the-record consult. You can walk at any point."
The coffee shop hummed around us. I could walk away. Go back to my office and my carefully controlled world where other people's trauma stayed contained within fifty-minute sessions. Or I could follow him.
"Lead the way," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
The October air outside Harbor & Slate carried the promise of rain, sharp and clean against my skin. "It's close," he said when I glanced at him questioningly. "My loft's just a few blocks from here."
I nodded, shoving my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. "I don't get over here much. Feels different from my block."
"Quieter," Rowan said as we waited at the crosswalk. He tapped the button twice, then gave me the faintest grin, like he knew he was being ridiculous but couldn't help himself. "Old habit. Always want to be sure the light heard me."
We slid off the Pike/Pine bustle into a quieter pocket—the low hum of I-5 a block away.
As we walked, I found myself studying him peripherally. His movements stayed tight, trained not to waste motion. Those gray-green eyes constantly scanned our surroundings without appearing paranoid. Everything about him suggested someone accustomed to looking over his shoulder, working in shadows, and dealing with information that could be dangerous in the wrong hands.
"What you said back there, about Iris being their victim. How long have you been tracking this?"
"Three years." His voice was matter-of-fact, but I caught the undercurrent of something darker. "Since I left the Bureau."
"FBI?"
"Behavioral Analysis Unit. Seven years." We passed a mural sprawling across the side of a vintage clothing store—geometric patterns in blues and greens that seemed to shift as we walked. "There was a case. Similar circumstances. I couldn't prove what I knew was happening."
The weight in his voice suggested more than professional frustration. I recognized the tone—I'd heard it in my own voice when I talked about Iris. The particular burden of failing someone you'd tried to protect.
"So you started the podcast."
"Information wants to be free. Sometimes you have to create your own channels." He looked at me. "Sometimes the only way to get justice is to make enough noise that ignoring you becomes impossible."
"How many?" I asked. "How many victims are we talking about?"
