Page 18 of Borrowed Pain
"Therapy session records. Electronic health record systems." I rubbed my forehead. "I think someone's been monitoring my client communications."
"Wow, Miles." A chair creaked, and I heard footsteps through the phone. "That's massive. Patient confidentiality violations. This is evidence tampering and wire fraud territory if electronic systems are involved."
"Which is why I need someone who understands digital forensics."
"No." The word landed with academic finality. "What you need is to report this to the proper authorities. State medical board, FBI, the people who handle healthcare fraud investigations."
My stomach clenched. "They'll want evidence I don't have."
"Then get it legally. File complaints, request investigations, document everything through official channels." Alex's voice softened slightly. "Miles, I know you want to help your clients, but if you're right about surveillance, you're dealing with serious criminal activity. Amateur hour usually gets people hurt."
"What if official channels don't work?"
"Then we cross that bridge when we get there." A pause. "But you try legitimate routes first. Promise me."
"Promise."
"Good. And Miles? Be careful who you tell about this. If someone's monitoring your client communications, they might be watching other things, too."
The line went quiet except for Luna's distant barking and what sounded like Michael's voice calling after her. I pictured Alex processing, possibly staring out toward the ocean from their Oregon home while weighing his words.
"Alex, there's something else." I told him about the incident that triggered all of this. "Someone called me. Sunday night, after dinner at Ma's."
"Called you how?"
"My work line. It was a digitally distorted voice, and they knew about my client, Iris. Knew about a place called Riverside where she'd gone for treatment." I gripped the phone tighter. "They said she wasn't the only one."
I heard Alex's sharp intake of breath. "What exactly did they say?"
"'Dr. McCabe, you don't know me, but we need to talk about Iris Delacroix. About what really happened at Riverside. Aboutwhy she's not the only one.'" The words had seared themselves into my memory. "Then the line went dead."
"Damn." Footsteps again, faster now. "Miles, that's not a concerned citizen. That's someone with inside knowledge trying to make contact."
"I know."
"Do you? Because if you're right about surveillance, this caller might be the only person who can prove it. Or—" Alex's tone darkened. "They might be the ones doing the watching."
The possibility hadn't occurred to me. I'd focused so narrowly on the information the caller offered that I hadn't considered they might be fishing for my reaction, testing what I knew.
"Why didn't you report this immediately?"
"Because Iris is dead." I sighed. "Because I kept her last conversation confidential, and she died anyway. I didn't want some bureaucrat filing my report under grief-stricken therapist receives prank call."
"You thought they wouldn't take you seriously."
"I thought they'd assume I was projecting guilt by creating conspiracy theories." I stood, pacing to my kitchen window where Seattle's morning traffic crawled through persistent mist. "Which is exactly what happened when I tried to investigate Iris's death eighteen months ago."
"You investigated before?"
"Informal inquiries. Her case worker, the facility coordinator, anyone who might have details about this Riverside place." My reflection stared back from the rain-speckled glass, hollow-eyed and stubborn. "Got a lot of sympathetic nods and absolutely no information."
"Because they were protecting something."
"Or because there was nothing to protect and I was a grieving therapist seeing patterns that didn't exist." I turned away frommy reflection. "Alex, what if I'm wrong about all of this? What if Iris did just—"
"Stop. You're not wrong about the surveillance. The question is whether they're trying to help you or manipulate you."
It was a crucial distinction. A whistleblower meant someone inside the system was fighting back. A manipulator meant they were drawing me deeper into whatever had killed Iris.
