Page 42 of Borrowed Pain
"Fuck," I whispered, knowing Rowan could hear me through the wire.
The first page contained what looked like a patient roster: names, ages, and facility codes. My throat closed when I recognized the format—it matched the intake forms I'd filled out hundreds of times, boxes checked while someone sat across from me, twisting their hands in their lap. Clients who trusted me to help them sleep through the night, trust their own memories, and believe they weren't broken.
I flipped through the following pages—drug trials disguised as treatment plans. Dosages stepped up like stairs to nowhere. Side effects that read like case notes gone wrong:fragmentation, suggestibility, dissociation.I could picture the words in my handwriting, except they weren't warnings here. They were goals.
"They were farming trauma," I breathed, knowing Rowan could hear.
I closed the notebook and slid it into my jacket, its weight pressing against my ribs like stolen evidence. The server appeared at my table with the coffee pot. "You doing okay, hon? Your friend left in quite a hurry."
"Family emergency," I said, throwing a twenty on the table. "Keep the change."
I walked toward the front entrance, and the chilled October air hit my face as I stepped outside. Rowan's car idled across the street.
"Get in," he said through the passenger window. "We need to move."
I slid into the seat beside him, notebook clutched in my lap. He pulled into traffic, eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror.
"Miles, tell me everything that happened after Rook bolted."
"He left this behind." I held up the notebook. "Financial records, patient rosters, and pharmaceutical logs. It's all here—the entire conspiracy documented in his handwriting."
"Don't open it in the car. If someone's tracking us, we don't want them to know what we have." Rowan's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Did anyone approach you after he left? Anyone show unusual interest?"
"The diner cleared out pretty fast after the car backfired. Could be a coincidence, could be—"
"No such thing as coincidence in this business." He took another turn, heading toward the Interstate. "What did Rook tell you about his contact?"
I replayed the conversation, focusing on the details that had stuck with me. "He was protecting someone. Their relationship is more than professional. He's in love with the person feeding him information."
"And you think it's Harrow?"
"Has to be. She's positioned perfectly to access the kind of data he described. She's got the reputation to provide cover for gathering intelligence, and if she's having second thoughts about the research she helped create..." I shrugged. "People do desperate things when carrying that kind of guilt."
Rowan took the ramp onto the Interstate, merging with the traffic flowing north toward Seattle.
"Miles, there's something about Harrow you need to understand." He spoke in a grave, quiet tone. "She's not just another researcher who got in over her head. She's the architect of all this."
"What do you mean?"
"All of the treatment protocols are based on her published research. She didn't stumble into a conspiracy. She designed it."
The notebook felt heavier in my lap. "You're saying she's not trying to expose them? She is them."
"I'm saying we need to be very careful about trusting anything that comes from her direction." Rowan glanced at me. "Including the information in that notebook."
"So what was that meeting really about?" I asked.
"I don't know yet, but we'll find out." Rowan's expression was grim. "We're going to take that notebook apart piece by piece until we understand what game they're really playing."
The Seattle skyline emerged from the industrial haze ahead of us, glass towers catching the afternoon light. Home. Safety. The familiar rhythms of a life I might never know again.
Chapter ten
Rowan
My warehouse swallowed our footsteps as we climbed the stairs. Miles trailed behind me with Rook's notebook clutched against his ribs. My key card beeped against the reader. The familiar electronic chirp usually announced sanctuary. Today, I experienced it more like sealing ourselves inside a tomb.
"Wire's digging into my chest," Miles said, tugging at his shirt collar.
