Page 66 of Borrowed Pain
That shut him up. His head dropped to my chest, ear over my heartbeat, and for a while, all I could hear was his breathing syncing with mine.
Rowan spoke, voice muffled against my skin. "I've never wanted to stay afterward until now."
"And now?"
"Now I don't want to leave."
I pressed a kiss into his damp hair. "Good. Because once you've survived Sunday dinner with my mother, there's no escape clause. You're stuck with us."
His laugh rumbled low in his chest. "Stuck doesn't sound so bad."
And with that, he drifted toward sleep, still tangled up with me. I stared up at the ceiling, aware of every place our bodies touched, thinking maybe this was too easy. Perhaps it wouldn't last, but I wanted to find out.
Chapter fourteen
Rowan
The burner phone's keypad clicked under my fingertips as I punched in the number I'd memorized from Patricia Hendricks's employment file. Three rings, then her voicemail—professional, clipped.
Delivering my message flatly, I said, "This is regarding your nephew's case file from 2019. Compliance review meeting required. Denny's on Grady Way, 6 AM tomorrow. Come alone."
I ended the call, snapped the SIM wafer, then gave it a ten-second microwave kiss under a ceramic mug. The plastic frame went into three different garbage cans on my walk home.
I pored over transit maps on my laptop at Matthew's kitchen table. Renton sat 25 minutes south on I-405, far enough from Seattle's federal buildings to discourage casual surveillance but close enough for a quick escape if things went sideways. The particular Denny's I'd chosen hunkered beside a truck stop, surrounded by industrial warehouses and 24-hour businesses that generated constant traffic. Perfect cover.
The screen glowed as I pulled up satellite images of the area, memorizing sight lines and exit routes. Two freeway on-rampswithin half a mile. A freight rail line that paralleled the highway. Service roads that connected to residential neighborhoods, in case I needed to disappear on foot.
Twenty-three years of government employment, and Patricia Hendricks had never taken a sick day until her nephew entered Meridian's system. The absence records painted a picture of someone watching a child disintegrate while maintaining perfect professional composure during business hours.
I closed the laptop to make a cup of tea. Miles would want to come. Partnership meant shared risk, shared decision-making, and all the messy complications of caring about someone else's safety. This was different—preliminary contact with a potential asset who might be hostile, compromised, or simply too scared to cooperate.
He was still asleep in Matthew's guest room. If I brought him and things went wrong, I'd be responsible for putting him in federal crosshairs. If I went alone and things went right, I'd be jumping the gun on our promise to Miles's family about a cooling-off period. I wouldn't come out as a clean winner regardless of what happened.
I heard a whispered voice. "Why are you awake?"
It was Miles padding out to the kitchen in his bare feet. I wanted to take him with me and chat and laugh along the drive. I couldn't take the risk.
"Set up an early meeting for tomorrow morning."
"You and who else? How early?"
Truth meant risk, but I was knowledgeable enough about relationships to know lies could stop it before it had a chance to begin.
"Five AM departure. Surveillance sweep and a preliminary contact."
Miles retrieved a tea bag and a mug from a cabinet. "With who? Are you going alone?"
Miles deserved to know, but once I told him, he'd insist on coming, and he might even tell his brothers. If he came with me, I'd filter every tactical decision through the knowledge that someone I loved could be hurt.
Someone I loved.
The thought arrived without warning. When did that happen? We'd shared a bed, but the leap to love…"
"Hendricks. The bureaucrat who dismissed us."
"She contacted you?"
"Other way around. Using her nephew's case as leverage."
