Page 7 of Borrowed Pain
I grabbed my phone and pulled up the email again. It wasn't about one dead woman anymore. It was about finding the thread that could unravel everything.
Miles McCabe might be the only person alive who could help me pull it.
It was 2:17 AM, and I'd spent over two hours cross-referencing files, building timelines, and staring at faces that deserved better than they'd gotten. I stared at Miles's email again, phone in hand.
Responding meant breaking the cardinal rules I'd followed since leaving the Bureau: Work alone. Trust no one. Control every variable. Therapists came with ethics constraints, legal obligations, and institutional loyalties that could sink an investigation before it started.
But Miles had reached out to me. On a Sunday night. Using language that suggested he understood the stakes.
More importantly, he had access to something I'd never been able to obtain: the inside view. He likely had therapy records, professional networks, and the kind of clinical insight that could distinguish between genuine treatment and sophisticated manipulation.
I opened a new browser tab and searched for his practice. Capitol Hill address, respectable credentials, and client testimonials that mentioned his work with trauma survivors.
His photo showed someone younger than I'd expected—dark, swept-back hair, eyes weighted with the exhaustion I knew in my bones. Not a polished headshot, but raw, unguarded, and almost too honest for a professional profile.
I should've filed it away like any other data point. Instead, my gaze caught on his mouth—its curve hinting at warmth he probably didn't mean to show.
A spark lit low in my gut. Unwelcome. Undeniable.
I grabbed my notebook and flipped to a fresh page. My fountain pen—the Montblanc my grandfather carried through three decades of federal service—scratched against the paper with authority. He'd taught me that handwritten notes couldn'tbe hacked, deleted, or subpoenaed as easily as email or phone calls.
Dr. Miles McCabe - therapist, Seattle - Iris Delacroix connection - URGENT.
Call Monday morning. Voice assessment. Verify credentials. Assess risk level.
Aiyana deserves justice. They all do.
The freight train whistle sounded again, pulling my attention to the window. Dawn was still hours away, but the city was already starting to wake—garbage trucks and the early commuters who kept Seattle functioning while most people slept.
I looked back at the case board. Miles McCabe might be the key I'd been searching for. Perhaps he was the inside source who could finally crack open whatever was happening to these people—the partner who could help me turn 3 years of frustration into something resembling justice.
I closed my laptop and left the podcast edit suspended mid-sentence. Mrs. Torres would have to wait a few more hours for me to tell her daughter's story properly.
The phone rang twice. A sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"
"Dr. McCabe? This is Rowan Ashcroft."
Chapter three
Miles
My phone buzzed against the nightstand at 2:24 AM, pulling me from uneasy sleep. I rolled over and squinted at the screen, expecting to see a client's name or the hospital's number—crisis calls came at impossible hours, and I'd trained myself to answer coherently no matter how ragged my state of mind.
"Hello?" My voice came out gravelly, thick with interrupted dreams.
"Dr. McCabe? This is Rowan Ashcroft."
His name yanked me out of sleep faster than any alarm. I sat bolt upright in bed, sheets tangled around my legs. That voice—low, controlled, threaded with the same rough edge that had been lulling me to sleep for months through my earbuds.
"I—" I cleared my throat, fighting to sound professional instead of like a fan caught off guard. "Mr. Ashcroft. I wasn't expecting—"
"I got your email." His words cut clean through my fumbling. No preamble. No apology for the hour. "We need to talk about Iris Delacroix."
The familiar shadows of my apartment pressed closer. Through my bedroom window, Seattle sprawled in pre-dawn quiet, a few scattered lights marking other insomniacs or shift workers.
"It's three in the morning."
"I know what time it is." Something in his voice—not impatience, but urgency—put me on edge. "How long have you been carrying this guilt, Dr. McCabe?"
