Page 20 of Borrowed Pain
A transit bus hissed to a stop nearby, its electric motor humming as passengers disembarked. Office workers hurried past, clutching coffee cups and briefcases, absorbed in Monday routines.
"Strategy?" I asked.
"You take the lead. It's your client, your professional territory." Rowan checked his phone. "I'll provide supporting documentation, stay factual, and avoid speculation."
"What if she shuts us down?"
"Then we know official channels are compromised." His gray-green eyes met mine. "Either through incompetence or design."
The state building loomed above us. Rain slicked the entrance steps, turning them treacherous for anyone foolish enough to approach without careful attention to footing.
"One more thing," Rowan said, pulling out a slim recording device. "Washington's a one-party consent state. Mind if I document this conversation?"
The casual way he produced surveillance equipment made me wonder what else he hid in his messenger bag. "Is that necessary?"
"Bureaucrats have selective memory when it comes to inconvenient promises." He slipped the recorder into hisjacket pocket, positioning it for optimal audio capture. "Documentation protects everyone."
We climbed the slippery steps together, my briefcase swinging against my leg. The building's lobby opened before us—polished floors and fluorescent lighting that leached color from everything it touched. Security guards flanked metal detectors.
"Fourth floor," Rowan murmured as we approached the elevators. "Healthcare Facility Licensing. Hendricks's office is wedged between Environmental Health and Facility Standards."
The elevator's lighting buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made us both look tired and suspicious.
"Ready?" Rowan asked as the doors opened onto the fourth floor.
The corridor stretched before us, beige walls lined with motivational posters about public service. The air smelled of copier toner and industrial cleaner.
Hendricks's nameplate gleamed beside a door marked "Healthcare Facility Licensing," brass polished to mirror brightness. Behind that door waited answers, deflection, or confirmation that the systems designed to protect vulnerable people were compromised from the inside.
I knocked twice, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.
"Come in."
Dr. Patricia Hendricks occupied an office that screamed middle management—beige walls decorated with framed certificates aligned like soldiers, and a desk positioned to project authority. A mug of tomato soup steamed beside her computer, its metallic tang warring with the cloying sweetness of vanilla air freshener.
She matched Rowan's research perfectly: early fifties, graying hair twisted into a regulation bun, shrewd eyes that assessed visitors before they'd finished crossing the threshold. Somethingabout the office was off, like a movie set designed to suggest competent bureaucracy rather than the real thing.
"Gentlemen, please sit." She gestured toward two chairs. "Dr. McCabe, I understand you have concerns about a former client?"
I settled into the chair. "Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Hendricks. I'm concerned about potential ethical violations involving a treatment facility called Riverside Mental Health Retreat." My voice was measured and professional. "My client, Iris Delacroix, attended their program eighteen months ago. She died a week after returning."
Hendricks pulled out a legal pad, pen poised. "I'm sorry for your loss. Suicide among trauma survivors is unfortunately common, even with the best therapeutic care."
"This isn't about therapeutic outcomes. It's about how Riverside recruited her." I leaned forward slightly. "Someone contacted Iris using specific details from our confidential therapy sessions. Information that HIPAA should have protected."
Her pen stopped moving. It was only a momentary hitch, but enough to notice. "That's a serious allegation. Do you have documentation of this contact?"
"Witness testimony from her roommate. The caller referenced therapeutic techniques specific to Iris's treatment—details that never appeared in any insurance filings or intake forms."
Hendricks scribbled notes, nodding with practiced sympathy. "And you believe this information came from unauthorized access to your records? Not from the client herself?"
"It's the only explanation. The caller knew intimate details about visualization exercises we'd developed together. Personal details that Iris had specifically asked me not to document. She wouldn't have shared it with outside entities."
"Have you contacted your electronic health records provider about potential security breaches?"
"Not yet. I wanted to report the incident to the proper authorities first."
Rowan shifted beside me, folder rustling. Hendricks glanced at him with polite wariness.
