Page 1 of Borrowed Pain
Chapter one
Miles
The rich aroma hit me before I'd even made it through Ma's front door—a rosemary and garlic blend that meanthome. It bypassed my brain entirely and burrowed straight into my chest.
Coats crowded the entry hooks—Marcus's neat navy jacket, Alex's lived-in hoodie, and the expensive scarf Dorian pretended not to care about.
"There's my baby," Ma called from the kitchen, not turning around as she stirred something that required her full attention.
"Your baby's thirty-two and has a mortgage," I said, kissing her cheek. The scent of her rose hand cream blended with the goodness simmering on the stove. "Nice apron. Very domestic goddess meets witness protection program."
Ma swatted at me with her wooden spoon, missing by design. "Don't sass your mother. Go sit. Your brothers are already making noise."
Marcus had colonized one end of the dining room table with paperwork—James angled in with a tablet; Alex perched on Michael's chair arm, smirking; Dorian steadied Matthew'sbreadstick mid-gesture, keeping his story from turning into a fencing match.
I took my usual chair—the one with the loose back Marcus promised to fix—and slid into my role: youngest, entertainer, the pressure valve. Lately, the role was a tight fit.
"—and then," Matthew said, adopting his official lecture voice as he waved the breadstick for emphasis, "the emergency vehicle executed what can only be described as an unfortunate parking maneuver. Direct collision. Right into Dr. Klein's sedan. Sirens blaring, hazards flashing, Klein frozen in place with his coffee like he'd seen it all before."
I watched him for a beat, registering the familiar rhythm of his voice, how he leaned forward when he got to the details, and the slight pause before he delivered the punchline. He always flipped into courtroom formal when he told work stories, like he was testifying under oath. I straightened in my chair and sank into his voice like slipping into an old coat.
"'Doctor,'" I said, perfectly mimicking Matthew's slightly nasal tone and that courtroom formality he fell into, "your vehicle has experienced what we in the professional community call a catastrophic parking outcome."
Michael snorted. Marcus looked up from his papers with a half-smile, suppressing a laugh. Matthew threw the breadstick at my head.
Dorian snatched it mid-flight and broke it in half. "Penalty for unsportsmanlike carbohydrates."
"I donotsound like that," Matthew protested, but he was grinning.
"You absolutely sound like that," I said, settling back into my chair. "You get all PBS documentary when you're telling work stories. Very soothing for the grieving automobiles, I'm sure."
Ma appeared at my shoulder with a platter piled high. "Leave your brother alone. He saves lives."
I accepted the platter. "So do I, with fewer sirens and flashing lights. Feelings."
"Feelings don't count," Michael said. "Too easy."
A brittle laugh bubbled up from my chest. Ma's eyes were on me for a second—that maternal radar that had always been too sharp for my own good—before she moved on to fuss over Marcus's empty water glass.
It was Sunday dinner, same as it had been for years—the voices and slightly barbed affection that defined the McCabe family ecosystem.
But it was all sitting a little off-center.
The conversation drifted to hockey—Marcus with Kraken stats, Michael declaring Seattle couldn't beat a college team, Matthew defending Grubauer with season-ticket fervor.
I should've jumped in with my coach impression. Instead, I picked at the napkin until the threads separated.
Sleep had been garbage lately. Not caffeine-jitters or deadline brain. Heavier. I lay there replaying sessions that had ended hours earlier.
Mrs. Kim, who always offered me lemon drops, had made a breakthrough after the car accident—then someone called about a specialized residential program. A veteran finally opened up about Kandahar, only to disappear after mentioning he'd been recruited for intensive treatment.
And Iris—
Three clients in six months. All making real progress. All suddenly contacted about cutting-edge programs I'd never heard of.
I told myself it was a coincidence. Survivors seek more help. My gut disagreed.
For the past several months, when my apartment went quiet at night, I'd put on theSilent Servicepodcast to hear Rowan Ashcroft's voice. Not the cases—they already haunted meenough—but the voice itself. Low, unhurried, threaded with a rough edge. More than once, I lay in the dark, hard for a man I'd never met, chasing sleep to the sound of him.
