Page 16 of Borrowed Pain
He stood motionless beside my evidence wall, holding his jacket limp in one hand. "You're asking me to believe that someone is systematically murdering trauma survivors through fake therapy programs. That requires extraordinary evidence."
"What about the surveillance? The mountaintop detail?"
"That's one piece of information that suggests Iris's therapy sessions were compromised. That's still far from proving a coordinated conspiracy across multiple facilities."
"So what would prove it? What would it take for you to believe this is real?"
Miles was silent as he considered. "Documentation of systematic surveillance. Evidence that multiple therapists' sessions are being monitored. Proof that patient information is being used to target recruitment."
"And how would we get that proof?"
"Carefully. And legally." He turned back to my laptop screen. "I use an electronic health record system—MindLink Pro. If unauthorized access happens, there will be digital fingerprints. I've had two after-hours login alerts I wrote off as glitches. You're sowing doubt."
It was a spark of hope. "You know how to investigate that?"
"I know someone who might but..." Miles paused, his expression conflicted. "I'm not ready to commit to anything beyond exploring whether Iris's sessions were specifically compromised."
"That's a start."
"It's a small start, and it doesn't mean I believe all of this. It means I'm willing to investigate one specific violation of therapeutic confidentiality."
"Fair enough." I pulled out a fresh notebook. "Where do we begin?"
"We don't begin anywhere. I begin by checking my own systems for signs of unauthorized access. If I find evidence that someone monitored my sessions with Iris, we can discuss next steps."
The boundary he set was clear, professional, and designed to limit his exposure while allowing for a focused investigation. I wanted to push harder to make him see the scope of what we were facing.
Instead, I nodded. "How long will that take?"
"A few days, maybe a week. I'll need to review system logs, check access histories, and possibly bring in… someone I know." Miles stood, preparing to leave again. "And I'll need to be careful. If someone is monitoring therapists' systems, investigating the surveillance could trigger unwanted attention."
The acknowledgment that surveillance was possible—even probable—was progress.
"Will you keep me informed?" I asked.
"If I find anything relevant to Iris's case, yes." Miles moved toward the door, then stopped. "But Rowan, I need you to understand something. Even if I find evidence that my sessions were compromised, that doesn't validate everything you've shown me here."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He turned back toward me. "I understand that you've been carrying this alone for so long that you're ready to accept any ally, even one with serious reservations about your conclusions."
The assessment was uncomfortably accurate. I had been desperate for someone to believe me and share the weight of what I'd discovered. Miles wasn't ready to be that person—not yet.
"I only want the truth," I said.
"So do I, but I want to find it through careful investigation, not confirmation bias." Miles pulled out a business card and wrote something on the back. "My personal number. Call me if you find new evidence—real evidence, not more pattern recognition."
He handed me the card, our fingers brushing briefly.
Miles paused near a shelf, his gaze lingering on a firefighter challenge coin. "Seattle FD?"
"My brother. Captain Jake Ashcroft. Station 10."
Something shifted in Miles's expression—not surprise, but recognition.
Understanding.
"My father was a firefighter," he said quietly. "Died in a refinery fire when I was twelve."
