Page 38 of Borrowed Pain
"What would you do?" Miles asked. "If it were your choice."
The question forced me to confront what I'd been avoiding since the phone rang. It wasn't just about justice for the nine people on my evidence wall anymore. It was about the man beside me, who trusted me enough to share family stories and breadstick theater.
"I'd probably meet him," I admitted. "He might be the only person alive who can finally give me answers."
"And me? What happens to me in your tactical assessment?"
"You become someone new I have to protect."
"That's not what I want to be."
"I know." I turned to face him.
Miles stepped closer. "I'm already in too deep, aren't I? Both professionally and personally."
"Yeah. Whatever happens tomorrow, I can't pretend you're just a professional contact."
He reached out for my hand again. "So what now?" he asked.
"Now we figure out what Dr. Tobias Rook wants, and decide whether we're brave enough to move forward together."
Miles squeezed my hand gently. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Even if it gets dangerous?"
"Especially if it gets dangerous." He smiled. "Besides, someone has to make sure you eat actual food instead of stress-baking your way through whatever crisis comes next."
For the first time since I left the Bureau, I wasn't facing a crisis alone.
Chapter nine
Miles
The razor nicked my jaw for the third time, pink water spiraling down the drain. My hands wouldn't cooperate—too much caffeine, too little sleep, and the persistent buzz of knowing I was about to cross another line I couldn't uncross.
The intercom buzz cut through my bathroom ritual. Seven-thirty exactly. Rowan's punctuality should have comforted me, but instead it hammered home that this wasn't a social call. I was about to strap recording equipment to my chest and meet a man the federal government thought was dead.
I opened the door to find Rowan holding a messenger bag and a paper sack that smelled like cinnamon and yeast.
"Stress-baking again?" I asked, stepping aside to let him in.
"Scones. You need to eat something." He glanced around my apartment, conducting his familiar investigative sweep.
"I had coffee."
"Coffee isn't food." He set the bag on my kitchen counter and opened his messenger bag, revealing equipment I recognized from cop shows. I saw wires, transmitters, and what looked like a battery pack small enough to hide under clothing.
This was happening.
Rowan pulled out a device the size of a matchbook. "The transmitter's got a four-hour battery and a two-mile range in clear line-of-sight. I'll be close."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Code word isrosemary. Work it into conversation naturally if you need extraction."
He held up a thin wire with what looked like a button at the end. "This is a contact mic. It goes under your shirt, taped to your sternum. It'll catch your voice through vibration."
"You want me to tape spy gear to my chest?"
