Page 19 of Borrowed Pain
"How do I tell the difference?"
"You probably can't, not yet. But Miles—" Papers rustled again, and I heard the soft click of a pen. "This isn't only about your client anymore. Promise me you'll take this to the proper authorities before you do anything else."
"What if they shut me down like they did eighteen months ago?"
"Then we'll know the system's compromised, and we'll find another way. You try legitimate channels first. For Iris and your own protection."
"I'll try the state health department first."
"Good. And Miles? Whatever you do, don't meet with this caller alone. If they contact you again, bring backup. Bring Michael if you have to."
The idea of Michael stepping in scraped across my nerves. "I'm not involving my family."
"Your family got involved the moment someone started watching you. They just don't know it yet."
After I hung up from talking to Alex, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my electric toothbrush buzzing uselessly in my hand.Follow official channels. Document everything. Play by rules that might be rigged from the start.
I spat toothpaste into the sink.
Alex was right, but bureaucratic wheels moved slowly while someone targeting trauma survivors operated with precision and speed. How many more clients would disappear intoprograms like Riverside while I filed complaints and waited for investigations that might never materialize?
I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over Rowan's contact. He'd pushed me to act. He wanted me to look past the paper trail and trust what was happening in front of us. Reckless, maybe. Not necessarily wrong. I sent a text.
Miles:Department of Health this afternoon. Come with me?
Rowan:Address?
I sent building details and the name of the licensing official we'd be meeting. Less than half an hour later, Rowan had already mapped the most efficient transit route and suggested a meeting time that would avoid government lunch schedules.
I set the phone down and studied my closet longer than made sense. Professional but not threatening. Credible but not corporate. I pretended what I wore mattered to a woman who'd probably dismiss us regardless of our presentation.
Blue button-down. Navy slacks. The same outfit I wore to court appearances and medical consultations—armor disguised as business casual.
Coffee beckoned from the kitchen, but my stomach couldn't handle more caffeine. Instead, I grabbed my briefcase and checked its contents twice: copies of Iris's timeline, documentation of the suspicious recruitment call, and printed emails from the roommate who'd witnessed her decline after Riverside.
It all looked inadequate. Paper trails that proved nothing more than coincidence. I tried to convince myself I wasn't tilting at windmills.
The state office building loomed ahead, a mid-century block of concrete and glass that looked more like efficiency frozen in stone than a place built for people. Seattle's mist blurred its hard edges but couldn't make it inviting. I checked my watch—ten minutes early, enough time to pace the sidewalk and rehearse arguments.
Rowan appeared from the Pioneer Square Light Rail station entrance a block down, striding toward me with the purposeful gait of someone who'd mapped every step between points A and B. He'd dressed for bureaucrats—charcoal wool coat over dark jeans, messenger bag cutting a neat line across his chest—practical defiance that made it clear he wasn't impressed by official authority.
My heart pounded. The voice that had kept me company through sleepless nights now belonged to a man who moved through the world with calculated precision, gray-green eyes constantly searching for potential threats. He wasn't only investigating Iris's death—he was hunting something larger, more dangerous, and utterly committed to following clues wherever they led.
"You look official," I said as Rowan approached, raindrops beading on his wool coat.
"State employees respond to visual cues." He gazed at the building's entrance. "Dr. Patricia Hendricks. Twenty-three years with the department, spotless record. Promoted unusually fast right after Riverside's last renewal."
I stared at him. "You researched our bureaucrat?"
"Divorced, two kids in college, mortgage paid off with a big lump sum last spring." Rowan shifted his messenger bag, revealing a manila folder thick with documents. "She drivesa 2018 Honda Civic, the same model as half her colleagues. Background research prevents surprises."
He didn't leave anything to chance.
"Hendricks approved Riverside's initial license renewal eighteen months ago," he continued, voice matter-of-fact. "Three weeks after Iris died."
"You think she knew?"
"I think she signed paperwork that kept a dangerous facility operational." It was a flat, clinical observation. "Whether she knew what she was enabling remains to be seen."
