Page 15 of Borrowed Pain
My jaw clenched. "I'm implying that someone with resources and connections is exploiting gaps in oversight."
"Mood boards and hunches aren't proof." Miles pointed at my case wall. "If we chase the wrong pattern, we bury the truth. Give me one fact that doesn't harmonize."
I'd heard the skepticism before, from supervisors at the Bureau and colleagues who thought I was too invested in individual cases.
"Nine people are dead," I said.
"Nine people with documented mental health struggles died by suicide. That's tragic, but it's not evidence of murder." Miles rubbed his forehead, looking suddenly exhausted. "I came herebecause I thought you might have information about Iris. Not because I wanted to be recruited into a crusade against the psychiatric establishment."
He turned toward my desk, clearly preparing to leave. "You should take this to the proper authorities. State medical boards, the FBI—"
"I tried the proper authorities. They told me there wasn't enough evidence."
"Maybe because there isn't enough evidence." Miles reached for his jacket. "What you're describing would require a level of coordination that would be almost impossible to sustain without detection."
I watched him prepare to walk away, taking with him any chance I had of understanding what had really happened to these people.
"They knew about the mountaintop," I said quietly.
Miles froze, his hand halfway through his jacket sleeve.
"What did you say?"
I moved to Iris's section of the wall, pulling out a folder I'd hoped never to open in front of him. "The intake coordinator who called Iris. According to her roommate, they mentioned her breakthrough using childhood safe spaces."
Miles turned slowly, his face pale. "That's impossible."
"The roommate remembered because it was so specific. The caller said the program could help Iris build on her mountaintop visualization work to achieve faster healing." I watched his expression change as the implications hit him. "But that terminology—mountaintop visualization—that's not standard therapeutic language."
"No," Miles whispered. "It's not."
"It was something specific to Iris's therapy, wasn't it? Something personal that wouldn't appear in any insurance records or intake forms."
Miles didn't answer immediately. He stared at the documentation in my hands, his breathing shallow.
"She told me about it in session six." His voice was barely audible. "Her grandparents used to take her to the top of Mount Washington every summer. It was her only happy memory from childhood, before her parents' divorce. We used it as an anchor point for grounding exercises."
"An anchor point that helped her feel safe when something triggered her."
"Yes, but I never wrote it down. It was too personal and specific. I kept it in my head because..." He looked at me, understanding dawning. "Because she asked me not to document it. Said it was too sacred to put in a file."
The warehouse was quiet except for the hum of my equipment. Miles moved closer to the wall, studying Iris's photo.
"Someone was listening," he said.
"Someone was listening to your sessions. Real-time monitoring that gave them access to the most intimate details of her therapeutic process." I pulled out another document. "And they used that information to make their recruitment pitch sound legitimate, personal, and tailored to her specific healing journey."
Miles reached for the wall, his hand hovering near Iris's photo. "She would have thought they had a connection to me. That's not just unethical. That's..."
"That's how they knew exactly when to contact her. When she was stable enough to trust their promises but not stable enough to resist sophisticated manipulation." I moved to stand beside him. "And it means they have access to other therapists' sessions too."
Miles was quiet, processing. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.
"The other clients I mentioned. Mrs. Kim, the veteran. If someone was monitoring their sessions too..."
"Then maybe we can trace the surveillance and determine how they access confidential therapeutic communications."
Miles looked at me, and his skepticism began to turn.
