Page 111 of Borrowed Pain
Miles turned his head toward my voice, recognition sparking across his features despite the chemical fog. "Rowan." My name was slurred but unmistakable.
"I'm here," I said, moving toward his chair before Andrews caught my arm.
"Secure the scene first," he said quietly, then addressed the room with federal authority. "Dr. Harrow, step away from the computer terminal."
She moved sideways, hands raised but eyes calculating. "Agent Andrews, you're making a catastrophic mistake. Dr. McCabe volunteered for extended therapeutic intervention. He signed consent documentation—"
"Under duress," Matthew interrupted, pulling medical supplies from his bag. "Miles, I'm going to check your vitals, okay?"
Miles managed a nod. Matthew wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm while examining the IV line with professional disgust.
"What's in the drip?" Matthew demanded.
Harrow glared. "Therapeutic anxiolytics to reduce resistance patterns that interfere with trauma processing."
"Benzodiazepines and what else?"
"Proprietary pharmaceutical combinations designed to optimize therapeutic receptivity."
"You drugged him into compliance." I stepped closer to Miles's chair, needing to touch him and confirm he was real and breathing.
Miles struggled against the restraints. "Rowan, she's been—" His words slurred together. "—using my techniques against themselves."
"We're getting you out of here," I said, reaching for the restraint buckles.
"Evidence preservation," Andrews said sharply. "Document everything before we move anything."
One of his agents was already photographing the scene—the IV setup and the restraints.
Matthew finished his medical assessment. "Pulse elevated but stable, blood pressure within normal limits considering the chemical intervention. Pupils reactive, speech slurred, but cognitive function appears intact." He looked directly at Miles. "Do you know what day it is?"
"Tuesday." Miles's voice gained strength. "You're Matthew McCabe, my brother who overuses a formal voice." A ghost of his humor flickered through the drug haze.
Matthew nearly smiled. "No benzo dependence on file, no mixed co-ingestants suspected—titrating flumazenil with airway and seizure kit ready. This might make you feel temporarily worse before you feel better."
"Worse than being psychologically dissected by a sadist in a lab coat? Hard to imagine."
Harrow's professional composure shattered completely. "None of you understand what I've accomplished here. I've developed groundbreaking techniques—"
"You've developed techniques that destroy people," I said.
She continued, but I focused on Miles. Harrow's babbling was background noise.
Andrews stepped forward. "Dr. Harrow, you're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and conspiracy to commit fraud." He gestured to his agents. "Read her rights and process her for federal custody."
As they moved Harrow toward the door, she turned back toward Miles with naked venom. "You'll never trust therapeutic relationships again. You'll spend the rest of your career wondering which clients you're harming with inadequate methods."
"Actually," Miles said, "I'll spend the rest of my career understanding that therapeutic authority can be corrupted, but genuine healing still exists."
The restraints finally released with mechanical clicks. Miles's hands shook as he rubbed circulation back into his wrists.
"Dr. Harrow," he called as they led her away, "I hope you find a therapist who can help you process what happened to you. Someone who won't use your trauma against you."
Even after hours of psychological torture, he was offering compassion to his tormentor. That was when I knew, with absolute certainty, that they hadn't broken him.
I finally reached out and touched Miles's shoulder, feeling solid warmth and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
"Hey," I said quietly.
