Page 70 of Borrowed Pain
"Then why haven't you?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Because the moment we share that evidence, every federal agency starts hunting the man I love. They think he's dead, and they'll kill him for his past, and they'll kill me to eliminate the witness who kept him alive."
The moral calculus was staggering—two people with evidence that could save hundreds of future victims, trapped by the knowledge that seeking justice would cost them everything.
"How many more children like David have suffered while you protected Rook?"
Patricia flinched. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't count every day, every new victim, and every family destroyed while I chose love over justice?"
I saw the cost of carrying that impossible choice for over a year in every line on her face.
"Is there another way?"
Patricia reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She opened the metal clasp.
Fifty-three million," she said. "That's what Meridian billed insurers in eighteen months."
The paperwork was clinical—policy numbers, tidy invoice lines, wire transfers—perfectly designed to pass automated review. The real treatment, she said, ran in unmarked clinics and didn't appear on any bill that regulators would expect to see.
"They built a paper trail that looks legitimate," she said. "But behind it is a tangle of shell companies feeding one offshore account."
She tapped a sketch of corporate nodes. "Seventeen shells, one Cayman spine."
I studied the web of financial connections. "It's run by someone with robust resources."
"Someone who understands federal oversight well enough to exploit its gaps." Patricia pulled out her phone, swiping through photos of documents. "These are compliance audits I've been filing quarterly. Perfect scores across the board, because I'm auditing facilities that don't provide services that match their billing records."
"You've been falsifying federal reports."
"I've been documenting a fraud network while appearing to validate it." The distinction mattered to her, even if federal prosecutors wouldn't care about the nuance. "Every false report includes digital breadcrumbs that would lead investigators to the real evidence if they knew how to look."
She slid over a photo of a compliance checklist, red boxes scattered through the form.
"It's all binary code," she explained, voice low but charged. "Routing numbers, addresses, dates—hidden in plain sight."
Pride shone in her eyes, and I felt a flicker of respect. Patricia was actively outsmarting the system.
"Does Rook know about your documentation methods?"
"He designed them. Tobias spent fifteen years in federal research. He knows how to hide information in bureaucratic systems where nobody bothers to look."
I photographed the documents with my phone, though I suspected Patricia had digital copies secured somewhere. "What's the extent of their geographical operations?"
"Facilities in seventeen cities, probably more we haven't identified. Seattle, Portland, San Francisco on the West Coast. Austin, Houston, Denver inland. Baltimore, Richmond, Atlanta across the South. All clustered around major medical centers where they can recruit established trauma therapists as unwitting referral sources."
"Like Miles."
"Like dozens of therapists whose sessions they've infiltrated. They identify successful treatment cases, then intercept patients during vulnerable transition periods." Patricia's hands clenched into fists. "It's systematic harvesting of people who've learned to trust the therapeutic process."
My phone buzzed against the table. Text message:
Unknown number:Running late. Traffic nightmare on I-405.
I showed the screen to Patricia. "Anyone you're expecting?"
"No." She checked her own phone, frowning at what she found there. "That's strange."
"What's strange?"
