Page 79 of Borrowed Pain
"No WITSEC record. But there's something else." He pulled up a financial analysis. "Payments from a shell company called Northbridge Consulting. Monthly deposits to accounts linked to Rook's aliases, going back two and a half years."
"Someone's been funding his disappearance."
"Someone with deep pockets and federal connections." Dorian highlighted a series of transactions. "The payment structure matches witness stipends, but it's not coming from DOJ."
My pulse quickened. "Private protection?"
"Or private containment." Dorian switched screens. "There's more. I ran a mortality analysis on potential witnesses and whistleblowers connected to Meridian's network."
The new data made my stomach drop. Six names, six deaths, all within the past eighteen months. Heart attacks, suicides, car accidents—the kind of convenient mortality that kept prosecutors awake at night.
"Blackstone Solutions," Dorian said, pointing to a connection web. "Private security firm with Meridian contracts. Asset protection and liability mitigation."
"Corporate euphemisms for murder."
"Corporate euphemisms for whatever needs to happen to protect the client's interests." Dorian's voice was flat and professional. "According to financial records, Meridian's been paying them handsomely."
I studied the timeline. Patricia's arrest, the systematic elimination of potential witnesses, and now Rook running scared through Seattle's underground.
"They're cleaning house," I said.
"More than that." Dorian switched to surveillance footage from this morning. "The same team that arrested Patricia has been conducting reconnaissance at this location for three days."
A chill raced through me. The monitors showed unmarked vehicles, telephoto lenses, and tactical surveillance positions around Matthew's warehouse.
"They know about Miles. About his family."
"They know about all of us." Dorian's hands moved across multiple keyboards. "Financial records, phone logs, family connections—they've been building a target package since you and Miles first met."
The weight of my selfishness crashed down. I'd dragged Miles into the investigation, convincing myself it was about justice forIris Delacroix. But really, it was about my need to finish what Lucia had started.
And now everyone I cared about was in the crosshairs.
"How long do we have?" I asked.
"Hard to say, but based on their pattern with other operations—" Dorian's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and tensed. "Encrypted message. Northbridge Consulting."
He opened the message, scanning its contents. "It's Rook. He's requesting immediate extraction. Says his safe house is compromised."
Twenty minutes later, I stood at the warehouse's tall windows, watching Seattle's traffic crawl through mist. My phone felt heavy against my palm—Rook's number programmed but not yet dialed.
Miles emerged from the guest room, hair mussed from the nap I'd insisted he take. The stress was wearing on him, carving hollow spaces under his eyes that made my chest ache. I wanted to pull him back into that room, lock the door, and pretend the world outside didn't exist.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"We found him. He's in trouble." I turned away from the window. "Meridian's running a cleanup operation. Eliminating witnesses and potential whistleblowers."
"Including us?"
"Including everyone who's asked the wrong questions in the last three years."
Miles sank into the chair beside Dorian's workstation. "How many people are we talking about?"
"Six confirmed deaths. Probably more we haven't identified." I moved toward him, needing his steadying presence. "Miles, they've been watching your family for weeks. Building profiles, identifying vulnerabilities."
His face went pale. "Ma. Marcus. The others." His voice cracked on the last word, and without thinking, I stepped closer, my hand finding the small of his back. He leaned into the touch like he needed the anchor.
"I'm sorry," I whispered against his ear. "I'm so fucking sorry I brought this to your door."
