Page 49 of Borrowed Pain
"Where are we?"
"Taking the long way to your place. If they're watching my building, they might have people positioned along the direct routes." He turned onto another side street, checking his mirrors constantly. "How well do you know your neighbors?"
"Well enough to exchange awkward small talk about the weather. Why?"
"Because if there's surveillance equipment in your apartment, they've been watching your routine for months." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "They know your life better than you do."
We wound through residential streets until my building appeared ahead. "That's your place?" asked Rowan.
"Yeah." The building looked the same as always—brick facade, narrow windows, a crooked number 7 that the landlord never fixed.
Rowan parked two blocks away. "We go in fast, you pack a quick bag, and we find whatever they planted and get out. Don't touch anything you don't have to."
I stared at my building, the place I called home. All of it compromised.
"Ready?" Rowan asked.
I wasn't ready for any of it, but Iris deserved better than my fear. "Let's go."
Crossing the threshold into my apartment was like stepping into someone else's life. The familiar scents—wood polish and the lavender fabric softener I bought because it reminded me of Ma's house—were wrong in a way that made my skin crawl.
Rowan reached out for my wrist. "Don't turn on the main lights. Only the lamp by your desk."
I flicked the switch, and warm yellow light pooled across my living room. Everything was exactly as I'd left it—throw pillows arranged how I liked them, a stack of unread books on the coffee table, and an apple core on a napkin, browned and forgotten.
"Do you conduct sessions at home?" Rowan asked, already moving toward my desk area.
"Not in person," I said. "I do video sessions from here—the chair by the window, laptop on the side table. Clients never come into the apartment."
"Don't touch anything yet." Rowan crouched by the chair. "Just tell me your routine. Where do you sit, where do you take calls, and where do you keep confidential files"?
I watched him work. He ran his fingers along the edges of furniture, probed gaps between cushions, and examined anything that could conceal electronics.
"Miles, come here. Look at this."
Behind my chair, nestled between the wall and a power strip, sat a device the size of a matchbook—Matte black, professionalgrade, with a tiny antenna that hid in a tangle of computer cables.
My throat constricted. "How long has that been there?"
"Based on the dust pattern? Months. Maybe longer." Rowan stood. "This is high-end surveillance equipment."
My hands started shaking. "They've been listening to my sessions. Every client and conversation—"
"We need to find the others. There will be others." Rowan moved toward my desk.
Desk. Chair. Side table. Every angle sprouted an ear.
"Fuck, Rowan. Iris called in the middle of the night, and then we switched to video. She told me about the mountaintop visualization while they listened."
"Miles—"
"She trusted me. She made me promise not to document what she told me because she was so scared, and I promised her it would stay between us. But it didn't, did it? They heard every word. We might as well have been broadcasting it at T-Mobile Park."
The room tilted slightly, and familiar objects wavered in my vision.
Rowan moved to the kitchen, probing under cabinets and behind appliances. "Another one. Positioned near your old-fashioned landline."
"That's where I take crisis calls. Late-night check-ins, emergency sessions—" My voice cracked.
