Page 72 of Borrowed Pain
They guided Patricia toward the exit, the lead agent grabbing her messenger bag while one of the other agents scooped up the documents from our table. I watched them confiscate evidence that might have been our only proof of the network's scope and financial operations.
They missed the flash drive in my palm beneath the table. And they missed the patient files I'd photographed with my phone.
Agent Andrews returned alone, sliding into the booth Patricia had vacated. His suit smelled of cigarettes.
"And you're Rowan Ashcroft. Former FBI, currently unemployed except for a podcast that approximately seventeen people listen to."
"Closer to twenty-three thousand subscribers, but who's counting"?
"What do you know about the investigation, Mr. Ashcroft?"
"What investigation?"
"Mr. Ashcroft, you're walking a very thin line here. Conspiracy theories about cover-ups don't excuse interfering with legitimate law enforcement operations."
"Is that what this is? Legitimate law enforcement?"
"Dr. Hendricks will be processed through federal custody, where she'll have the opportunity to provide complete information about her illegal activities and any co-conspirators, including podcasters who encourage civil servants to violate their oaths of office."
The threat was clear enough. They were watching me, probably had been since my first meeting with Miles. One wrong move, and I'd join Patricia in federal custody.
"Am I free to go?"
"For now. But Mr. Ashcroft?" The agent stood along with me and straightened his jacket. "Stay available. We'll probably want to continue this conversation very soon."
Chapter fifteen
Miles
My knee kept knocking the underside of Matthew's table. The only other sounds: a vent's low whirr and Charlie breathing against my knee. The air smelled like warm yeast and rosemary crushed under a knife.
Matthew worked his dough with both hands, his shoulders set, and his jaw tight. He wasn't kneading anymore so much as arguing with it—fold, press, quarter turn, repeat—leaving clean crescents from his knuckles pressed in the surface. Olive oil pooled in a shallow bowl beside him, a sprig of rosemary already bruised and waiting.
Dorian sat in a corner with his bank of computer monitors, a watchman in a blue glow. Every twelve minutes, he tapped a key, and the feeds cycled: curb views, alley angles, and the slow river of cars on the cross street.
Charlie nosed my calf and parked his chin on my foot, a heavy, deliberate weight. I ran my fingers along the groove between his ears and tried to match his quiet breathing. It held for three breaths, maybe four. Then my leg started up again.
"We don't have to watch the clock," Matthew said. Flour dusted his forearms. "The time will pass without our help."
Rowan and I agreed to a seventy-two-hour cooldown at the family's planning session: no new contacts, and no improvisation. Rowan had nodded, jaw tight, mouth a straight line that meant he hated it but would try anyway. He gave me a heads-up, but I couldn't stop him from leaving this morning, and the look he gave said he'd found a loophole his ethics could live with.
My phone buzzed on the table.
"Miles."
Road noise bled through—wipers and wet tires. Rowan's voice was edgy.
"She's in custody."
My fingers tightened around the phone. "Patricia?"
"Three agents. Bad suits, better timing." He drew a low, slow breath. "Walked in like they owned the place."
"Were you—"
"They warned me." The words were flat, efficient. "Generic threat and told to stay available. I'm twenty-five minutes from the warehouse."
Dorian's chair creaked once as he shifted to try to listen without making it obvious.
