Page 41 of Borrowed Pain
She was brilliant, well-positioned, and had access to the information Rook described.
"Dr. Harrow," I said quietly. "She's working with you?"
Rook's eyes widened, but he didn't directly confirm my notion. "She's... trying to survive while documenting what they've been doing. When you started asking questions about Riverside, she thought you might be someone who could help expose the truth."
It made a twisted kind of sense. Harrow sat at the top of the research hierarchy, respected enough that her concerns would carry weight, but also vulnerable if she moved against her colleagues too openly.
"What truth?" I asked.
Rook exhaled, rough and uneven. "We weren't healing." His hands froze on the notebook. "The treatments didn't erase anything. They made people weaker. Easier to bend. Easier to use." His voice broke in a low register. "We made victims."
"How many people?"
"Hundreds. Maybe more." He flipped to a page covered in small print—names, dates, and facility codes. "Seventeen facilities across six states, all using variations of the protocols I helped develop."
A truck rumbled past outside, its diesel engine rattling the diner's windows. Rook flinched at the sound, turning halfway around to look toward the parking lot.
His phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor transformed—the paranoid researcher replaced by someone who clearly loved the caller.
"Excuse me," he whispered, answering the phone. "Hello?" His voice was suddenly soft and tender. "I know, I know. I'm being careful."
I watched his face as he listened, noting how his free hand relaxed its grip on the notebook, and his shoulders relaxed from their defensive hunch.
"She's waiting," he murmured. He slid the phone back into his pocket. "She's concerned about you meeting with me. The risk is getting higher for anyone who asks questions."
I assumed he meant the risk to Harrow's position and reputation. "How long has she been documenting this?"
"Years—years—she's been meticulous, playing the long game." Rook leaned forward, fingers drumming against the table. "But they're catching on. They've started to trace the outlines, see the links. She's drawing too much heat, looking too close at facilities that should've been invisible."
"And she suggested you contact me?"
"She thought you might be willing to go further than official channels." He traced the edge of the notebook with a trembling finger. "Official channels failed you eighteen months ago because they're compromised."
"What kind of further?" I asked.
Rook opened the notebook to a page full of addresses. "There's evidence. Documentation that can't be buried or dismissed. She's been gathering it but can't act on it without exposing herself."
"So she needs outside help."
He closed the notebook and slid it across to me. "If I don't make it, this does."
His phone buzzed again, and this time the tension returned to his shoulders. He glanced at the screen and frowned.
"What is it?" I asked.
"She's... something's wrong." He was already sliding out of the booth, notebook clutched to his chest. "They're asking her questions at work."
"Wait—" I started, but his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and his face went ashen.
"Emergency meeting. Now." His voice cracked. "They've called her in. They know."
I stared at the notebook as he stood. "I have to go," he gasped, already moving toward the rear exit. "If they've found her—"
"Dr. Rook!" I called after him, but he was already pushing through the back door, leaving me alone at the booth with cold coffee and a notebook full of secrets.
I stared at the notebook sprawled across the booth's cracked vinyl, its pages fanned open. Conversations continued around me as if a federal fugitive hadn't just fled through the back of a Tacoma diner.
My hands shook as I reached for the notebook. Inside, Rook's handwriting filled every available space.
