Page 115 of Borrowed Pain
When the marshals led her toward the side door, her shoulders dropped just enough to appear human again. She mouthed two words—thank you—before the door closed behind her.
Around us, the gallery dissolved into motion: chairs scraping, pens capping, and reporters gathering fragments of the story. Rowan and I stayed seated in the fading noise, the two of us absorbing the silence left in Patricia's wake.
"She could've run," I said at last. "After Rook died, she could've erased everything and disappeared."
Rowan turned his hand over in mine. "But she didn't."
We rose together and followed the slow tide toward the doors. By the time we pushed outside, microphones crowded close, and cameras washed my vision in a harsh white glare.
"Dr. McCabe—your thoughts on the sentence?"
"Will you testify before Congress about systematic medical abuse?"
"Do you consider this justice?"
The last question stopped me cold. Justice. Eighteen months for a woman who'd enabled torture while trying to protect the man she loved. David still couldn't sleep through the night. Iris was still dead. How do you weigh love against complicity?
"No comment today," Rowan said, wedging his body between the swarm and me. He guided me through the crush toward the parking garage.
I didn't have much choice about the second question. Congressional hearings were already scheduled. They wanted me in Washington, under oath, explaining how sophisticated psychological manipulation worked.
Thinking about it made my hands tremble.
"You don't have to," Rowan said three days later as we sat in my apartment, staring at the congressional subpoena.
It was on official letterhead from the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions. I was to speak about "systematic vulnerabilities in medical research oversight" and "therapeutic authority exploitation in clinical settings."
On camera, I would have to explain how I'd willingly given myself up for torture.
"Don't I?" I asked. "Patricia sacrificed her freedom to expose the network. The least I can do is explain how it operated."
Rowan settled into the chair across from me, studying my face. "Miles, you don't owe them another voyage back through your trauma. The evidence speaks for itself."
"Ledgers and receipts don't explain the psychology." I touched the subpoena's thick paper. "They need to understand how predators like Harrow identify and exploit vulnerabilities. How they use therapeutic authority to manipulate trust."
"And you're the only person who can explain that?"
"I'm the only person who survived it intact enough to remember. Harrow's other victims can't testify. Some are dead. Others are too damaged. I'm functional enough to sit in front of cameras and describe what happened in clinical terms."
Rowan was quiet momentarily. "What scares you most about testifying?"
It was a therapeutic question, and it cut straight to the heart of it. "That I'll sound like I'm making excuses when they ask why I fell for her manipulation. I worry that I won't have an answer that makes sense to people who've never experienced systematic gaslighting."
Rowan reached out for me, weaving his fingers together with mine. "What would you tell a client who was preparing to testify about their trauma?"
My clinical training kicked in. "That their job isn't to be perfect. Speaking their truth is enough, even if their voice shakes."
"Smart therapist."
"Occasionally." I turned my hand over in his, palm to palm. "Will you come with me?"
"Try to keep me away."
Washington, D.C., in November was like Seattle with worse coffee and higher stakes. Our hotel room overlooked the Capitol building, a massive dome white against the gray sky. I'd spenttwo days preparing testimony, reducing my experiences to bullet points and numbered paragraphs.
The night before the hearing, I couldn't eat. Room service sat untouched while I paced between the bed and window, reviewing notes I'd already memorized.
"Miles." Rowan caught my arm as I passed. "Sit down. You're making me seasick."
