Page 50 of Borrowed Pain
"Your bedroom," Rowan said quietly. "We need to check your bedroom." He touched my shoulder. "I know this is—"
"Do you?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Do you know what it's like to discover your most sacred space has been violated for months? That every promise of confidentiality I made was a lie?"
"Yes." His voice was quiet but confident. "I know exactly what that feels like."
I stared at him. "Lucia?"
"They had audio surveillance in her apartment, too. Found it after she died." He clenched his jaw. "She thought she was working alone, building a case in private. They heard every strategy session and every moment of doubt."
The bedroom revealed two more devices—one in the lamp beside my bed and another behind my dresser. They were places where I'd talked on my cellphone with my brothers and with Rowan.
All of it violated.
"I have to call them," I said, pulling out my phone with shaky hands. "Every client. They have a right to know their confidentiality was violated."
Rowan caught my wrist. "Miles, relax."
"I don't want to relax. They trusted me to keep their secrets safe, and I failed them." My voice cracked. "Some of them will never trust a therapist again."
"Because of Meridian's crimes," Rowan corrected. "Not because of anything you did."
I was already scrolling through my client list, calculating the conversations I'd need to have, the trust I'd need to rebuild, and the practice I might lose entirely.
I sat on my bed. "I keep trying to think of something funny to say, some joke that makes this manageable. I can't. There's nothing funny about this."
"No, there isn't." Rowan sat beside me, his presence solid and warm.
"Nothing private," I whispered.
Cold fury bled through Rowan's words. "They stole pieces of you. I'll tear them apart for it."
"I can't stay here," I said.
Rowan stood, extending his hand. "No, that's not the plan. Pack what you need. We're leaving."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere they can't listen."
I took his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. I stuffed clothes into a carry-on suitcase with trembling hands, grabbing essentials without thinking—toothbrush, clean shirts, the paperback I'd been meaning to finish for three months.
"We need somewhere they can't track us," Rowan said from the doorway, keeping watch while I packed. "Somewhere off their radar."
"Hotel?" I zipped the bag closed.
"They'll monitor credit cards, probably have facial recognition software running at major chains." He stepped up close. "What about family? Someone with security experience?"
My stomach clenched. "I'm not dragging my brothers into this."
"Miles—"
"No." I dragged the suitcase toward the door. "I've spent my entire adult life keeping them out of my problems. I'm not going to change now."
We made it to the stairwell before Rowan caught my arm. His grip was firm enough to stop my momentum.
"This isn't about pride. It's about survival. Yours and theirs."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
