Page 68 of Borrowed Pain
"Adoption?"
"His parents—my sister and her husband—died in a car accident when David was six. I was his only living relative." Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. "He'd been in the backseat when it happened. Watched them die. The trauma was—he'd wake up screaming every night for months."
She pulled out her phone, swiping to a photo of a dark-haired boy with a gap-toothed smile. "I tried everything. Pediatric therapists, play therapy, and art therapy. Some of it helped, but David still struggled. Still had nightmares and panic attacks. Then someone from Meridian Wellness Group called."
"How did they know about David?"
"They said his regular therapist had referred him. Dr. Simmons had been treating David for six months, making real progress. When I called to confirm, Dr. Simmons said he'd never heard of Meridian."
It was the same pattern as Iris and the others. They'd monitored David's therapy sessions, waiting for the optimal moment to recruit him.
"But you let them take him anyway."
A bitter laugh erupted. "They weren't taking him anywhere. It was supposed to be outpatient treatment—two hours, three times a week, for a specialized program that could resolve childhood trauma in eight weeks instead of years. They hadmedical licenses, insurance approval, and testimonials from other families whose children had been cured."
She made air quotes around the word "cured."
"What happened during those eight weeks?"
"For the first month, David was better. He relaxed more and slept through the night. He even laughed a few times. I thought it was working." She wiped her eyes with a paper napkin. "Then he started forgetting things. Little things at first—where he'd put his backpack, what we'd had for dinner the night before. Then bigger things."
"Like what?"
"He couldn't remember his parents' names. Couldn't remember the bedtime stories his mother used to tell him." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They'd erased every happy memory he had, leaving only the trauma and the fear."
"Did you report it?"
"To whom? Meridian claimed David was having a normal adjustment reaction to therapy. His insurance company said the treatment was medically necessary and properly documented. The state licensing board told me they'd investigate, but that was three years ago."
"And you've been documenting their operations ever since?"
Patricia nodded. "Every facility license they've applied for and every insurance claim they've submitted. I've been building a case from the inside, using my position to gather evidence that couldn't be ignored or explained away."
"Why haven't you taken it to federal authorities?"
I watched Patricia wrestle with her answer.
"Because there's another victim," she said finally. "It's someone else I care about who would die if I exposed them before he's ready."
Patricia stared into her coffee.
"There's a support group," she said finally. "For people raising traumatized children. Meets twice a month in a church basement in Bellevue. Folding chairs arranged in circles and a rotating cast of exhausted caregivers trying to figure out how to help kids who've seen too much."
I waited for her to continue.
"I started going after David came back from Meridian. Thought maybe other people dealing with similar situations might have strategies I hadn't considered."
She pulled a sugar packet from the table's dispenser and tapped it with a fingertip.
"That's where I met Thomas Mitchell. He was quiet. Always sat in the back row and listened more than he talked. When he did speak, he sounded wise—questions about trauma responses and suggestions about therapeutic approaches that actually helped. He said he was a researcher studying childhood trauma recovery to improve treatment protocols."
"From Virginia?"
"Yeah. Soft accent, the kind that comes from money and education. He'd moved to Seattle for a consulting position but couldn't discuss specifics. Said it involved confidential medical research."
I briefly listened to a group of construction workers laughing at a nearby table.
"And you started seeing each other?"
