Page 43 of Borrowed Pain
"Leave it for now." I approached my desk, already reaching for the digital camera. "We document everything before we touch it."
Miles dropped into the chair beside my workstation. His hair had gotten mussed during the drive—wind from the cracked window we'd kept open to stay alert,
"You're doing that thing again," he said.
"What thing?"
"Federal agent thing. All business, no processing." Miles finally set the notebook on the table between us. "I just met adead man who fled through a diner's back exit. Maybe you could acknowledge that for half a second?"
I picked up my fountain pen, clicking it twice against my palm. Miles was right. The adrenaline from Tacoma still buzzed through my veins like a megadose of caffeine.
"He was terrified," I said. "Whoever this contact is, Rook would die to protect them."
Miles leaned forward, watching me photograph each page. "What's the systematic approach here? Start with recent entries or work backward?"
"Financial data first. Numbers don't lie, even when people do." I flipped to a page dense with bank routing codes and dollar amounts. "Look at this—transfers from Meridian Wellness Group, routed through three shell companies before landing in accounts registered to Enhanced Therapy Solutions."
Miles squinted at the figures. "Those amounts... Damn, Rowan. Two million dollars. For what?"
"Patient recruitment incentives, facility rental, and pharmaceutical procurement." I traced my finger down Rook's notations. "And look at this—quarterly consultation fees paid to Dr. C. Harrow, for the past three years."
"Consultation fees?"
"Blood money."
Miles yanked his laptop from the bag, keys rattling under his fingers. "Let's see if these numbers line up with insurance fraud. Bill the companies for clean therapy on paper, and behind the curtain—experimental torture."
His screen populated with data. "Fuck me," Miles breathed. "This isn't just matching your research; it's expanding it exponentially."
"They're not hiding anymore," I said. "They're scaling up."
Miles leaned back in his chair. "We need to call the FBI. Tonight. This is federal conspiracy, wire fraud, medical fraud—"
"With what evidence?" I gestured toward the notebook. "A dead man's handwritten diary? Financial records with no chain of custody? Miles, this proves what we already knew, but it won't convict anyone in federal court."
"Then what's the point of—"
His phone buzzed against the table.
"Blocked number again."
I reached for his wrist before he could answer. "Don't."
"It could be Rook. Maybe his contact—"
"Or it could be them, testing whether you're home and alone." I stared into his eyes. "Let it go to voicemail."
The buzzing stopped. Miles's phone screen dimmed.
"You're right," Miles said quietly. "We can't trust anyone now."
I flipped through evidence that redefined everything we thought we knew about the scope of what we were fighting. It was systematic human experimentation, dressed up as cutting-edge treatment and funded by insurance companies that had no idea their claims were subsidizing abuse.
The next page made me pause. Between Rook's drug notations and patient rosters, cramped handwriting filled the margins—different ink, hurried script that looked like somebody added it in stolen moments.
"Miles." I angled the notebook so he could see. "Look at this."
The margin notes weren't data. They were fragments of conversation, coded but clearly personal.
