Page 12 of Borrowed Pain
Chapter four
Rowan
My spine went rigid.
"It's documentation." The words snapped out, ricocheting off the warehouse's brick walls. "Evidence preservation. Standard investigative protocol."
Miles didn't flinch. He stood in the center of my workspace, hands loose at his sides, studying the wall of faces. His scent reached me—clean cotton and the sharp bite of spearmint gum—cutting through the stale coffee and ozone of overworked electronics.
"Of course it is, but you've memorized their birthdays, haven't you? Their favorite songs. The names of their pets."
I swallowed, breath snagging in my throat. Below Devon Reeves's photograph, I'd pinned a Post-it note:Rescued three-legged beagle named Buster. Sang off-key to Fleetwood Mac in the shower.
How had he spotted that from fifteen feet away?
"That's not—" I started, then stopped. Lying to a therapist was futile. "It helps with the work."
"I'm sure it does." Miles turned toward me. "Keeping them alive in your mind while you fight for them in the real world. It's how we survive carrying other people's pain."
Therapist-speak.Other people's pain.
I'd spent three years telling myself I was merely conducting an investigation. The sleepless nights and obsessive cross-referencing were professional dedication. Aiyana's voice whispering through my dreams was simply unfinished business.
It took Miles McCabe ten minutes to dismantle the facade.
"You don't know what you're talking about." My words were hollow.
"Don't I?" He moved closer—not crowding. "How long since you've taken a real day off? When's the last time you had a conversation that wasn't about murder or conspiracy or justice? Let me guess, when someone asks how you're doing, you respond with death tolls and funding schemes. I bet you're a real hit at parties."
My hands curled into fists. I wanted to step back, needing the space to think. Part of me wanted the comfort of a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, the steady rhythm of whisk against glass—something I could control.
"We're not here to psychoanalyze me," I managed.
"No. We're here because nine people are dead, and you've been carrying that weight alone for three years."
His recognition stole my breath.
"So what now?" Miles asked. "Two grief-stricken investigators walk into a conspiracy theory?"
The attempt at humor fell flat, but something about it—how he defaulted to deflection when things got too real—nearly made me smile.
I unclenched my fists. "Now we figure out if we can trust each other."
Moving to the long work table that dominated the center of the room, I opened a manila folder. The paper was soft with handling, edges worn from the number of times I'd spread the contents across various surfaces, searching for patterns that refused to emerge.
"This is everything I have on Iris." Police reports, newspaper clippings, social media screenshots, and timeline notes in my own handwriting scattered between us. "Official cause of death: suicide. Jumped from her apartment balcony at 2:32 AM on a Tuesday."
Miles approached the table. He studied the arrangement without touching anything.
"You're looking for a narrative."
"Stories have logic—even the twisted ones. Three weeks before her death, Iris went quiet on all social media. Complete radio silence."
Miles reached for one of the photos—a group at what looked like a birthday party. He traced the edge with two fingertips, not quite touching Iris's face.
"This is a photo from a month before she died," he said quietly. "She'd gotten a job promotion and planned a weekend trip with these friends."
I looked up from the documents. "You knew her well."
