Page 67 of Borrowed Pain
"Can I come as backup?"
He asked with no emotion in his voice. It was what a good partner would ask.
"I'd prefer not for initial contact. Too many variables."
He poured hot water over the tea bag. "I suppose there's no convincing—"
"No."
"And I shouldn't—"
"Right."
Miles leaned against the counter and gazed into my eyes. "Then be careful."
"Always am."
"Bullshit. You're methodical. That's different from careful."
I stared back at him. He was invested in my survival.
"I'll do my best."
"Good. Then you'll text me as soon as you're on your way back."
***
Denny's at dawn reeked of industrial coffee and bacon grease. I claimed a corner booth with clear sightlines to both entrances. My server's nametag read "Brenda" in faded letters.
Long-haul truckers nursed hangovers, third-shift workers grabbed breakfast before heading home, and a few customers looked like they never slept. Patricia Hendricks arrived seventeen minutes late, scanning the dining room. Her wool coat hung loose on a frame that had lost weight since our previous meeting, and she wore her previously perfect hair pulled back in a functional ponytail.
As soon as she spotted me, she nodded in recognition. She slid into the booth across from me without eye contact, gripping her purse like a shield.
"Dr. Hendricks. I'm Rowan—"
"Mr. Ashcroft, I know who you are. I suspected it might be you… or your companion. You were with Dr. McCabe in my office. I thought he might be able to help, and anyone he brought along wouldn't be ordinary backup. You mentioned David's case file."
"I did." I pushed a menu toward her. "Hungry?"
She shook her head, caught Brenda's attention, and pointed at my coffee cup. Her hands trembled slightly.
"How do you know about David?"
"Public records. Residential treatment facilities are supposed to report outcomes to state oversight agencies. David's file shows a gap—six weeks where nobody knows where he was or what happened to him."
Patricia's coffee arrived in a ceramic mug. I pressed her, leaning in. "And you think that gap is connected to your investigation?"
"I think the same network that targeted Iris Delacroix recruited David and dozens of other trauma victims. I thinkyou've been protecting that network for three years while it destroyed more people."
She flinched. "You don't know anything about protection."
"Then tell me what I'm missing."
Around us, the diner's morning routine continued—orders called out, and the hiss of eggs hitting hot grease.
"David wasn't my nephew," she said finally. "He was my son."
The words rearranged everything I thought I knew about her motivations.
