Page 36 of Borrowed Pain
"Sat across from someone and wanted them to stay." It was tactical suicide, revealing a weakness to someone who could exploit it.
"How long?"
I thought about empty apartments, takeout containers, and the thousands of conversations that never moved beyond professional necessity. "Since before the Bureau. Since before I learned that caring about people makes you vulnerable to manipulation."
Miles was quiet momentarily, thumb still tracing patterns against my knuckles.
"Maybe another thing to try today—wanting this, without calculating exit strategies."
He was describing stepping off a cliff. It would require being just Rowan—not the federal agent, podcaster, or man with the evidence wall. I had to reveal the person underneath all those defensive layers.
"I don't know how to do that anymore."
"Neither do I, but maybe we could figure it out together."
I lifted our joined hands, pressing my lips briefly to his knuckles. "For today."
Miles's phone buzzed against the table between us, the vibration traveling through the wood and into my bones. He glanced at the screen, the relaxed contentment draining from his face.
"Unknown number," his thumb hovered. "Could be a client." I watched his face, reading the decision playing out in real time. "Crisis doesn't respect lunch schedules."
Miles lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?" Pause. "This is Dr. McCabe." His voice was steady enough, but his shoulders stiffened.
Silence, then: "You've called before." All the remaining color leached out of his face.
Another pause. His chair scraped back an inch. "Tomorrow? Tacoma?"
Miles's gaze flicked to the windows.
"I'll wait for the details," he said finally, each word clipped and deliberate. When he ended the call, his thumb pressed the screen with a force that suggested anything but calm.
I was already reaching across the table, taking the device from his fingers. The call log showed a blocked number, with a duration of thirty-seven seconds: no trace and no way to track the source.
Miles whispered, "He said his name was Tobias Rook."
I nearly dropped the phone.
"Rowan?" Miles's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Dr. Tobias Rook.
The name dragged me back to a sterile conference room in the Baltimore field office where Lucia and I had spread evidence across government-issue tables. Financial records, patient files, and pharmaceutical shipping manifests that didn't quite add up.
Healing Horizons employed a research team led by Dr. Tobias Rook, a neuropharmacologist, former university professor, and brilliant mind focused on accelerating trauma therapy through controlled memory manipulation. His published papers read like science fiction: techniques for isolating traumatic memories, suppressing emotional responses, and rebuilding neural pathways through pharmaceutical enhancement.
Then, his facility started losing patients. Rook had been our best lead, the inside source who said he had the keys to what Healing Horizons was actually doing to their patients. We'd scheduled an interview and planned to bring him in under witness protection if necessary.
The night before our meeting, he disappeared. Vanished from his apartment, his research lab, and his entire life. Colleagues said he'd mentioned concerns about the facility's methodology.
We assumed he was dead.
"Rowan." Miles's voice cut through the memory spiral. "Talk to me. You know that name."
"Miles, you just spoke to a ghost. We have to go." I stood abruptly. "Right now."
"What? Why?" Miles remained seated, confusion replacing the fear that had flickered across his face during the call. "Rowan, you're scaring me."
I threw cash on the table—too much, enough to cover dinner and ensure our server wouldn't remember details if anyone came asking questions.
