Page 84 of Borrowed Pain
A training exemplar file arrived. The header read: "Case Study Archive — De-Identified Footage (Consent on File)." Faces were blurred per protocol; the lower-left caption scrolled: "Shared for educational purposes only—HIPAA identifiers removed."
A second video showed the same woman three weeks later. But instead of the gradual improvement typical of trauma recovery, she was discussing how she'd confronted her attacker, filed formal charges, and felt empowered rather than victimized. The transformation couldn't happen that fast according to traditional recovery timelines.
Still, if the neuroimaging data she'd provided earlier were authentic, it suggested the fast recovery might be neurologically feasible.
My phone rang.
"Dr. McCabe. Before we discuss meeting arrangements, I need you to understand something about my motivations."
She paused and took three deep breaths.
"I didn't develop these protocols in isolation. I lost clients, too."
It was a professional confession between colleagues who'd experienced similar losses.
"Three patients," she continued. "Anne, who'd survived childhood abuse and was finally stabilizing. Justin, who'd been making genuine progress after military trauma. And Jennifer, who'd been rebuilding her sense of safety after sexual assault."
Each name carried weight. She wasn't reciting statistics; she shared personal failures that had driven her toward breakthrough science.
"What happened to them?"
"They were recruited during vulnerable transition periods by programs that promised accelerated healing using corrupted versions of my research. They disappeared into facilities that returned them broken in ways traditional therapy couldn't repair." She lowered her voice. "Or they didn't return at all."
Through the warehouse windows, rain kicked up and started to drum against glass. Somewhere out there, Rowan was risking his life pursuing justice for people already dead. In here, I was being offered tools that might prevent future deaths entirely.
"Dr. McCabe, I need you to understand—they didn't only steal my patients. They stole my research and used it against the people I hoped to help." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Every corrupted application of these techniques carries my fingerprints. Every exploited survivor was harmed by science I created."
The pain in her voice sounded authentic.
"That's why you're reaching out now?"
She paused.
"Dr. McCabe, tomorrow afternoon, I can show you additional information about Iris Delacroix—not only what happened to her, but what might have been possible if ethical versions of these techniques had been available."
My hands shook as I gripped the phone. Eighteen months of professional guilt, endless replaying of sessions, and desperate searching for missed warning signs—she was offering closure based on scientific advancement rather than emotional absolution.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"A meeting. Tomorrow at 2 PM, Harborview Clinical Research Wing, Room 314. Full institutional oversight, IRB approval, everything transparent and legitimate. Badge preapproved byHarborview Research Admin. You can check in at the Clinical Research desk for access."
Her voice was steady. "I can show you the reformed protocols in action, walk you through the evidence about Iris, and discuss potential collaboration."
"Collaboration?"
"This isn't enrollment. I can't ethically recruit or enroll anyone while they're inside an active conflict zone. Tomorrow will be non-interventional—a demo and document review only. Any real collaboration would go through our institutional governance and separate disclosures. What I can show you is evidence, and a model of how the protocols work under full oversight."
She paused. "Dr. McCabe, traditional therapy failed your client. These protocols could help trauma survivors achieve lasting recovery in weeks rather than years."
I stared at the surveillance monitors showing empty streets.
"Tomorrow," I said finally. "Room 314."
"Thank you, Dr. McCabe." Relief colored her voice. "Tomorrow you'll finally understand what really happened to Iris—and what's possible for the clients you haven't lost yet."
I ended the call and sat in Dorian's vacated chair, surrounded by the electronic hum of his workstation. Charlie whined softly from his position by the door, missing his pack.
Before sending my formal acceptance, I set a quiet safeguard in Dorian's comms rig: a dead-man's switch programmed to auto-send my location if I missed two scheduled check-ins. Then I typed:
