Page 26 of Borrowed Pain
I scratched out a note with my pen. "Late shift. Building's not as empty as it looks."
"Think they're connected to Meridian?"
"Standard cleaning service, probably, but..." I studied the extensive camera array mounted above the building's entrance. "Look at that security setup. Motion sensors, infrared cameras,and card readers on every door. That's expensive surveillance for a bunch of accountants."
"Maybe they're serious about protecting their spreadsheets."
The forced levity was gone. Miles studied the cameras, too, calculating sight lines and coverage areas.
More lights flickered on in the building's upper floors.
"Fourth floor," Miles said. "Something's happening up there."
I reached for my phone, then stopped. If Meridian were sophisticated enough to monitor therapists' sessions, they'd certainly be watching for electronic surveillance near their headquarters.
"We should go," I said.
"Now? But if someone's actually—"
"We don't know what we're walking into, and we're sitting ducks out here. Besides, I have a better idea."
Miles slowly unbuckled his seatbelt, still watching the building. "What kind of better idea?"
"The kind that involves walking through their front door tomorrow during business hours. If Riverside operates out of that office, someone there knows what happened to Iris."
"And you think they'll just tell us?"
"I think they'll try to recruit you." I glanced at him. "You're the kind of target they're looking for—trauma therapist with access to vulnerable clients, carrying enough guilt to be an easy target for manipulation."
Miles was quiet as he climbed out of the car. Just before closing the door, he leaned back in. "For what it's worth, I'm glad I'm not the only one who knows about Iris."
I took a circuitous route back to Georgetown, watching my mirrors.
My apartment welcomed me with the comforting hum of electronics and the faint lemon-scented residue of the morning'sstress-baking session. The evidence wall glowed under track lighting, nine faces staring down at me.
Miles's words echoed in the warehouse's brick acoustics:I'm glad I'm not the only one who knows about Iris.
My laptop sat where I'd left it, and Meridian's corporate records were still open on the screen. The building we'd surveilled looked innocuous in the digital photographs—another anonymous tower in a city full of them.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the photos I'd taken: building entrance, camera positions, and license plates from the cleaning crew's van. Everything looked routine, but that was what I'd expect from a sophisticated operation.
My electric tea kettle whistled from the kitchen space. Earl Grey tonight. The bergamot's citrus bite would help me think.
While the tea steeped, I added new details to Iris's section of the evidence wall. Questions annotated in red ink:Where do they take patients? How many facilities are in the network? What's the methodology?
My phone buzzed.
Miles:Made it home safe. Thanks for tonight
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What was the appropriate response to a partner who'd just watched you confess your deepest professional failure? Who'd let you see past his own carefully constructed defenses?
Rowan:Sleep well. Tomorrow gets complicated
Miles:More complicated than fake therapy facilities and phantom treatment programs?
Rowan:Much more
Miles:Looking forward to it
