Page 34 of Borrowed Pain
Miles maintained the character, waving the breadstick for emphasis. "'Furthermore, we need comprehensive analysis of workflow optimization protocols—' and here's where he always does this thing with his free hand, like he's conducting an orchestra, 'with particular attention to ergonomic considerations and personnel fatigue mitigation strategies.'"
"What was he actually trying to say?"
Miles grinned. "That the hospitals are understaffed and the new scheduling system sucks."
I laughed again. "He really talks like that?"
"Gets worse when he's passionate about something. Last month, he spent twenty minutes explaining proper spinal alignment during family dinner because Ma's dining chairs were 'ergonomically suboptimal for extended postural maintenance.'"
The image of grown men discussing chair ergonomics while their mother served dinner struck me as both absurd and deeply enviable. I admired a family that stayed connected. Mine had long since scattered hundreds of miles apart from each other.
Miles's smile faltered slightly. "Matthew means well, but sometimes I wonder if his need to fix everyone's medical problems is because nobody could fix Dad's. The smoke inhalation was too severe." He shook his head. "Family dinner gets complicated when everyone's carrying professional guilt."
Our entrees arrived—homemade pasta, mine with a red sauce, and Miles with white.
"When did you last see your family?" Miles asked.
"Christmas. Phone call."
"That's it?"
"Two brothers—one in New York and the other in Costa Rica. My parents retired to Naples, Florida. They all think I'm wasting my education on conspiracy theories instead of respectable employment." I twirled the pasta on my fork. "They're not wrong."
Miles set down his fork. "You gave up everything to share stories about people unfairly facing the impact of crime."
"Because I haven't actually exposed anyone yet. I'm still sitting in warehouses talking to strangers about patterns that might not exist."
Miles flinched.
"Strangers?"
Fuck. "Miles, I didn't mean—"
"It's fine. Good to know where I stand in your risk assessment."
I reached across the table, touching his forearm. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
He looked up. "Did it?"
"Yes. I'm not good at this. Being with people who aren't sources or suspects. You scare me."
"I scare you?"
"You make me want things I've convinced myself I don't need. Family dinners, inside jokes, and someone who cares whether I eat actual food."
Miles was quiet. "Tell me about before," he said finally. "What made you want to hunt patterns in the first place?"
"My grandfather. Joseph Ashcroft. Thirty years with the Bureau, worked organized crime in Chicago." I remembered his calloused hands guiding mine across newspaper clippings. "When I was eight, he'd show me crime reports buried on page six. Missing persons, unexplained accidents, and suicides that didn't add up."
"And you saw patterns."
"I saw questions nobody was asking. Grandpa Joe would say, 'The story they print is never the whole story, kid. Your job is to find the parts they left out.'"
Miles leaned forward. "So you joined the Bureau to follow in his footsteps."
"I joined because I wanted to be the person who asked the questions nobody else was asking. Took me seven years to learn that asking the right questions doesn't matter if nobody wants to hear the answers."
The server approached with coffee service. Miles accepted—public acknowledgment that whatever was happening between us had moved beyond professional collaboration.
