Page 39 of Borrowed Pain
"I want you to come home safe." It was a blunt statement—honest concern about me.
I reached for my coffee mug, needing something to do with my hands. "This feels veryMission Impossiblemeets grief counseling.'"
"Miles, this isn't a joke. Rook contacted you for reasons we don't understand yet. People connected to his research have died. I need you to take this seriously."
"I am taking it seriously. Hence, the nervous babbling and the fact that I cut my face three times trying to shave." I touched the small bandage on my jaw. "Humor is how I process fear, Rowan. Always has been."
"I understand, but I need you fully present."
"Okay." I pulled my shirt over my head, trying to appear nonchalant when I was half-naked with Rowan for the first time. "Show me how this works."
He tried not to be obvious, but I watched his gaze travel across my chest before snapping back to professional focus. A half-smile indicated appreciation.
"We need to center the transmitter just below your collarbone." He held up a strip of medical tape. "May I?"
I nodded.
His fingers were careful and clinical as he positioned the device. The wire traced a path down the center of my chest while he secured it with tape, his knuckles brushing against my bare skin.
"How does that feel?" he asked.
"Like I'm wearing a live grenade." I pulled my shirt back on. "Can you tell?"
Rowan stepped back, studying my appearance with the same intensity he brought to evidence walls. "Perfect. You look exactly like a therapist meeting someone for coffee."
"You mean a therapist meeting a ghost for coffee."
"A therapist who's about to get answers about his client's death. Miles, whatever Rook tells you—whatever you learn about what happened to Iris—you no longer have to shoulder the burden alone."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Rowan zipped his messenger bag and picked up his keys. "Ready?"
I grabbed a scone from the paper bag, tearing off a piece that dissolved into butter and cinnamon on my tongue. My last normal moment before everything changed again.
"Ready."
The drive to Tacoma stretched along I-5 through industrial wasteland—shipping containers stacked like metallic Legos and refineries breathing steam into the overcast sky.
I watched a freight train crawl parallel to the highway. "Tell me about Rook before he disappeared. What was he like?"
"Brilliant and obsessive about his research." Rowan's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "He published papers on memory manipulation that read like science fiction."
"And you think he was experimenting on patients?"
"I think he believed he was helping them. Rook wasn't evil, Miles. He was a researcher who got recruited by people whowere." Rowan took the exit toward the port district. "The last time Lucia and I spoke with him, he was terrified. Said he'd discovered they didn't design the protocols to heal trauma—they used them as a weapon."
What did it mean to weaponize someone's healing?
Sal's Diner nestled between a tire shop and a check-cashing place, its flickering neon sign a stubborn splash of color in the gray afternoon. Perfect anonymity.
Rowan pulled into a parking space with clear sightlines to the diner's entrance. "I'll position myself across the street. Radio range is good, and I can be inside in thirty seconds if you need me."
"And if he doesn't show?"
"Then we know someone got to him first." Rowan's lips pressed tight in a grim expression. "Miles, if anything feels wrong—if he seems agitated or mentions being followed—get out. Don't worry about being polite."
I climbed out of the car, the transmitter's wire shifting against my shirt.
