Page 122 of Borrowed Pain
"Rowan—it's Sunday night. The case will keep until tomorrow."
He was right, of course. Miles moved through our kitchen efficiently, transferring Ma's sauce to the refrigerator while I wrapped the remaining shortbread.
"What are you thinking about?" Miles asked, appearing beside me with two glasses of water.
"Patricia Hendricks got out last week—early release." I accepted the glass. "I saw the news update in my feed yesterday."
Miles nodded. We'd followed the legal aftermath closely—watching as federal prosecutors dismantled what remained of Meridian's network while Patricia served her reduced sentence.
"She called yesterday," I continued. "Left a voicemail thanking us for understanding her impossible position. For understanding why she couldn't expose Meridian while Rook was still alive."
"Heavy call to return."
"I haven't called back yet." I set my water glass on the counter. "Part of me wonders whether she'd have made different choices if she'd trusted us earlier. If David might have—"
"Stop." Miles grabbed my shoulder. "Patricia made the best decisions she could with the information she had. Like we did. Like Rook did."
My guilt had softened over the past six months, tempered by satisfaction with the justice we'd helped deliver.
"The podcast is getting requests," I said. "Other survivors are reaching out with their own stories about corporate medical fraud. Patterns I'm starting to recognize."
Miles smiled. "Thinking about expanding the scope?"
"Maybe. Would you be interested in consulting? Your expertise in trauma therapy would be invaluable for interviews with medical survivors."
"Send me the case summaries. It could be fun to be a partner on some new cases."
Rain drummed against our windows as we moved through the evening routine we'd developed—Miles organizing his files for Monday's appointments while I updated my investigation notes, both of us working at opposite ends of the dining table that had become command central for our respective careers.
Later, in the darkness of our bedroom, Miles's breathing settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. I lay awake, listening tothe familiar sounds of our neighborhood: freight trains in the distance and the occasional car navigating wet streets.
I thought about Iris Delacroix, whose desperate voicemail had started everything. About Rook dying with poison in his veins, finally free to tell the truth. And about Patricia, released from prison to rebuild a life hollowed out by impossible choices.
Borrowed Pain.That would be the title of my new podcast. It came to me while watching Miles testify before Congress. Healing came through finding someone to help you carry your burden—borrow it for a little while.
Miles stirred beside me, his hand finding mine beneath the covers without fully waking.
Six months ago, I'd believed love was something you only earned through perfection or a random accident. The McCabe family had taught me otherwise.
Love was something you were claimed into.
And once claimed, you could stay as long as you wanted.
I closed my eyes and let sleep come, secure in the knowledge that morning would bring coffee shared across the kitchen island, ahead of a day's worth of work that mattered.
Home.
***
