Page 77 of Borrowed Pain
"That we work together," she said. "That we reform what they've stolen. Restore trust. Offer survivors help, not harm." A beat of silence. "I'd like to meet you, Dr. McCabe. Share my frameworks and explore opportunities for collaboration."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "I'd need proof. Something I can verify."
"Of course." Her voice was calm. "I'll forward a preregistered DOI and checksum for my draft framework. You can authenticate its integrity before any further discussions."
Either she was casting bait, or her offer was authentic. Testable and credible.
The muffled voices of my family drifted under the door—Marcus, Dorian, Matthew. I knew they'd instantly howl if they knew about the call.
"Dr. Harrow," I said carefully, "if your words are true, your work could change everything. But if they aren't—"
"Then you'll know when you authenticate the files," she interrupted. "I'll send them within the hour."
The line went dead.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "A recruitment pitch?"
"That or the breakthrough we've been chasing. My gut says both are possible."
The guest room door creaked open. Marcus stood framed by the glow of monitors, a legal pad in hand. "Who was that?"
I met his gaze. "Dr. Celeste Harrow. She wants to collaborate."
His jaw tightened. "I suppose it's fruitless to suggest you cut this off, but whatever happens next happens under full oversight."
Rowan reached out for my hand.
I nodded. "Agreed. She'll understand why I don't work alone if she's genuine."
Outside the window, the rain eased into a fine mist. Charlie barked once in the main room. Luna answered with a soft yip.
For a minute, I had to hold in my mind two contradicting notions. Harrow's offer was either salvation or a trap.
Chapter sixteen
Rowan
Dorian's workstation hummed like a server farm. Six monitors cast blue light across his face as data scrolled in languages I'd never learned—network protocols and database queries that might as well have been hieroglyphs.
"Facial recognition hit," he said, tapping a screen. "Tacoma. Rite Aid pharmacy, two hours after you left the diner."
The timestamp glowed: 9:16 AM. In the grainy surveillance footage, a man in a baseball cap kept his head down while approaching the prescription counter. Even pixelated and compressed, the nervous energy was unmistakable.
Tobias Rook. Still alive, still running.
"Credit card?" I asked.
"Cash transaction, but he had to show ID for the pickup. Thomas Mitchell—same alias you said Patricia mentioned." Dorian pulled up another window. "Prescription for Xanax. Thirty-day supply, filled yesterday."
I leaned closer, studying Rook's body language. Shoulders hunched, eyes constantly scanning the store. He moved like someone who expected bullets.
"Trail goes cold after that," Dorian continued. "No more card transactions and no facial recognition hits. He's gone full off-grid."
My fountain pen clicked against the desk. Three years ago, Rook had been paranoid but still functional. Now he was a ghost, surviving on borrowed IDs and benzos.
"There's more," Dorian said, switching to a traffic camera feed. "Vehicle registered to Thomas Mitchell, abandoned in a Walmart parking lot. The engine was still warm when the police found it."
A silver Honda sat alone, driver's door hanging open. A lump formed in my throat. Rook had run from that car like his life depended on it.
