Page 22 of Borrowed Pain
Seattle's drizzle had graduated to proper rain while we'd been inside. My hands shook with suppressed fury.
"Well, that went about as expected," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "Should we organize a march on Olympia next?I'm thinking picket signs, maybe some chanting. 'Hey, hey, ho, ho, medical fraud has got to go.'"
Rowan didn't respond to my joke. He descended the steps with careful precision, messenger bag clutched against his chest. Rain darkened his hair, turning him into something pulled from a noir film—all shadows and controlled danger.
"Miles."
I turned to look back, and my foot hit a particularly slick patch of concrete. Time slowed as the world tilted sideways. I windmilled my arms, briefcase flying, and the steps rushing up to meet me.
Rowan's hand locked around my forearm, fingers digging into muscle through my jacket. His other arm swept across my back, hauling me upright against his chest. For a heartbeat, we stood frozen in an awkward embrace, rain pattering around us.
"Steady," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
My pulse pounded in my throat. This close, I caught the scent of rain-soaked wool and cold metal, as if the city itself clung to him. His grip on my arm remained firm, steadying, even after I'd regained my footing.
"Thanks," I managed.
Rowan's gray-green eyes searched my face, and I wondered what he saw there. Embarrassment? Attraction?
"They're protected," he said quietly, his hand still resting on my arm.
"Protected by whom?"
"Money. Reputation. Political connections." Rowan's fingers loosened but didn't release me entirely. "People who profit from keeping things exactly as they are."
Rain drummed harder, sending pedestrians scurrying for covered transit stops and building overhangs. We stood in the downpour, water streaming down our faces.
"So what now?"
"Now we do this the hard way." Rowan finally released my arm. "No official support, no institutional backing. Everything we find, we find ourselves."
Rowan retrieved my briefcase from where it had skittered across the wet pavement, water dripping from its leather corners.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the street. "Let's get out of this rain."
We walked toward the transit station, shoulders nearly touching, while the city blurred around us in gray and silver. The warmth of Rowan's hand on my arm lingered like a promise—or maybe a warning about how far I was willing to fall.
Chapter six
Rowan
As I pushed through Harbor & Slate's heavy oak door, the floor groaned under my boots. Converted Craftsman houses always complained—a century of Seattle weather had taught the wood to argue with every footstep. The café's interior sprawled through what had once been a family's living spaces, mismatched furniture scattered across rooms.
Miles claimed a table near the bay window, fingers drumming against his ceramic mug. He'd been there long enough to drain half his coffee.
I settled into the chair across from him. "You look like someone who's been wrestling with bad news."
The barista—college-aged, nose ring, flannel that had seen better days—glanced up from her espresso machine. Her gaze lingered on my notebook before returning to the milk she steamed. I positioned myself so she couldn't read over my shoulder.
"Not exactly bad news." Miles's voice had a brittle edge. "I've decided to tell you what triggered me to contact you. I got a call—an anonymous one. After dinner at Ma's."
I pulled out my fountain pen, but didn't uncap it yet. Somewhere in the back, a toddler let out a delighted shriek.
Miles wrapped both hands around his mug. "It was a digitally distorted voice, but the words were crystal clear. 'Dr. McCabe, you don't know me, but we need to talk about Iris Delacroix. About what really happened at Riverside. About why she's not the only one.'"
The milk steamer gurgled. Behind us, a group of graduate students debated something urgent about postmodern theory.
"They knew her name," I said.
