Page 13 of Borrowed Pain
"Over a year of therapy. Twice weekly at first, then weekly as she stabilized." Miles pulled another document toward him—a newspaper clipping about workplace support groups. "She was doing well. Exceptionally well. Had started volunteering to help other survivors, and talked about maybe speaking at conferences someday."
The pain in his voice remained controlled and professional, but I heard cracks underneath.
"So what happened? What made her go to Riverside?"
"Someone called her."
My gaze slid lower than it should have. His jeans fit close, drawn tight over his thighs and tapering over calves that flexed with every step—solid muscle, perhaps from cycling or running stairs. I dragged my focus back up before he could notice, irritated at myself for letting anatomy intrude on homicide.
Miles spoke. "It was less than a week after that photo. A clipped, credentialed voice said they'd heard about her progress, had a program that could help her take the next step."
"Who referred her?"
"That's just it—nobody did. No therapist, no doctor, no medical professional in her network. This caller… appeared." Miles's jaw tightened. "They knew she was in therapy and was doing well, but I have no idea how."
I felt the familiar prickle at the base of my skull, the old Bureau instinct that meant I was close to something important.
"What did they promise her?"
"A breakthrough. Two weeks of intensive treatment would accomplish what might take years in traditional therapy. They called it accelerated trauma resolution."
"And she believed them?"
"Why wouldn't she? They sounded legitimate and professional. She checked their medical credentials and intake procedures." Miles met my gaze. "Iris was smart and cautious. She wouldn't have gone if it seemed suspicious."
I pulled out my notebook, fountain pen scratching across fresh paper.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miles pause. He stared at the pen in my hand.
“Montblanc Meisterstück?”
I froze. Most people never noticed. "Yeah. My grandfather carried it his whole career at the Bureau. Left it to me when he retired."
Miles reached into his jacket and pulled out his own pen, black lacquer gleaming in the warehouse light.
"My brother, Marcus, gave me one like that when I finished my doctorate," he said. "Said if I was going to be writing people's secrets down all day, I ought to do it with style."
A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. "Smart man."
Miles continued his story. "Then it all went catastrophically wrong for Iris. She called me that night, terrified, saying they were doing things that weren't therapy. That she'd signed papers she didn't understand." His hands gripped the table's edge. "And then she was dead."
"Have you seen this pattern with other clients?"
Miles hesitated, but something made him trust me.
"Three others. Maybe four. All contacted by programs I'd never heard of, all after making significant progress." His voice dropped. "Mrs. Kim disappeared for two weeks, came back... different. Couldn't remember things she'd worked hard to process. And another client, a veteran—he stopped showing up for appointments after someone called about a specialized program for military trauma."
The familiar pattern aligned with cases from Phoenix, Austin, and Baltimore. Different facilities and different names, but the same methodology.
"They're hunting success stories," I said.
Miles looked at me sharply. "What?"
"Think about it. They're not targeting people at the beginning of recovery, when they're most vulnerable. They're waiting until clients have made real progress and are stable enough to be credible witnesses to healing." I tapped my pen against the notebook. "Then they destroy that progress."
"But why would anyone want to..." Miles trailed off.
I moved toward the evidence wall. The faces stared back at us—nine people whose healing had been weaponized against them.
