Page 75 of Borrowed Pain
"She's still shy," Alex said, crouching to reassure her. "But she's over her carsickness."
Michael's gaze swept over the room, registering positions: Rowan at the table, Marcus with his pen, and Dorian wearing nitrile gloves beside the flash drive. Michael locked his focus on Rowan. "Tell me you didn't go alone."
"I went alone."
Michael's nostrils flared. "We agreed—seventy-two hours. No field meetings. No exceptions."
"She would've been gone if I'd waited," Rowan said. "The drive exists because I went. I'll hand Dorian my burner rotations and contact protocols—audit anything you want."
"You gambled with exposure. You gambled with Miles." Michael growled under his words. "That's not fieldcraft, it's arrogance."
"Enough," I snapped. "He made a call. If he hadn't, we'd have nothing. Patricia chose to hand it over. She trusted him."
Michael's eyes cut toward me, then back to Rowan. "And now she's in custody."
"Because the Bureau was already watching her," I said, louder. "Not because of him."
Matthew lifted a flour-coated hand, palm out, attempting to referee. "It happened. Let's move forward."
Dorian, without looking up: "I'm imaging the drive now. Tableau write-blocker engaged. Pre-image SHA-256 recorded. Kicking off a bit-for-bit image to an isolated forensic workstation—will verify post-image hash and log chain of custody."
Michael turned his attention to the small black rectangle. "What's on it?"
"Her entire case," Rowan said. His voice was raw but steady. "Three years of records and notes."
"And personal revelations," I added. "David's not her nephew. He's her son. And she was protecting Rook."
Alex settled onto the couch, Luna curling into his lap, head pressed under his hand. "That complicates her reliability."
"It complicates her," Rowan corrected. "Not her evidence."
Michael shook his head once. "We have federal evidence, possibly classified, definitely compromised. That makes us accessories if the Bureau wants to press it."
"Which is why I'm drafting counsel options," Marcus said, flipping a page. "Rivera & Koh. Federal defense, competent with chain of custody."
Matthew finally left the sink and planted himself at the counter again, arms crossed, flour marks on his shirt. "What we're not doing is abandoning this. Patricia knew the cost. She handed it over anyway. Walking away now? That's like letting someone bleed out because the scene's too dangerous."
Silence reigned again. Only the dogs moved—Charlie inching closer, Luna sniffing his ear with tentative curiosity.
I tugged Rowan toward the guest room before the next round of arguments could start. He followed without protest, coat left draped and dripping on a chair. The door clicked behind us, muffling Marcus's low voice and the muted buzz of Dorian's laptop fan.
Rowan collapsed into Matthew's reading chair. Wet hair clung to his forehead. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if darkness might blunt the weight pressing down on him.
"I led them straight to her," he said.
"You didn't," I countered, sitting on the bed's edge. "They were there for her. You just happened to be in the blast radius."
His hands dropped, revealing gray-green eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "She was smiling, Miles, when they led her out. Like she'd been waiting for it. I can't stop seeing it."
"She handed you the drive first." I leaned forward. "That's not a trap. That's a handoff. She wanted someone to carry it when she couldn't anymore."
A brittle laugh escaped his lips. "You're generous with motives."
"I'm a therapist. I get paid to find silver linings in shit storms."
Rowan raked his fingers through his hair, leaving spikes in their wake. "Everyone who helps me gets hurt. Rook. Patricia. Now—" He stopped, and his jaw tightened.
"Now what?" I asked.
