Page 28 of Borrowed Pain
Michael was quiet. When he spoke again, his voice had softened enough to be recognizable as my brother instead of tactical officer McCabe.
"Miles. You're the most ethical therapist I know. You don't chase shadows. If you think something's wrong, something's wrong."
On almost any other occasion, the validation would have been comforting. Instead, I wanted my assessment to be off-base.
"Stay put," Michael continued. "Alex and I will drive up today. Should be there by—"
"No." I turned away from the window. "I mean it, Michael. Don't come here. Don't call your federal contacts. Don't turn this into a McCabe family crisis."
"Then what's your plan? Alex said you're meeting with some podcast guy who thinks there's a whole network of—"
"His name is Rowan Ashcroft, and he knows more about this than anyone else I've found."
"A podcaster."
"He used to be FBI."
Michael stopped. He respected credentials.
"You trust him?"
I thought about Rowan's evidence wall and how he carefully arranged each photo, carrying pain for people he'd never met. Ithought about his grandfather's fountain pen and how his hands moved when he was thinking.
"I trust his motives."
"That's not the same as trusting him."
"It's what I've got."
Michael exhaled. "Don't do anything stupid, Miles. Promise me. If this turns dangerous—if you feel threatened in any way—you call me immediately."
"Promise."
"I mean it. Miles, these people killed your client. What do you think they'll do to you?"
The line went dead, leaving me standing in my kitchen with the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the empty static of a severed connection.
Outside, Seattle was waking up. Dog-walkers tugged at leashes and buses rumbled through wet intersections. For half a second, I was ten again, standing at Pike Place with Dad's hand heavy on my shoulder, watching fish arc through the air while vendors shouted over the crowd. The city hadn't changed much. I had.
I set the phone on the counter. In a few hours, I'd sit across from Rowan again, pretending our partnership was still purely professional.
As I climbed into the shower, the spray scalded my shoulders, steam fogging the bathroom mirror until my reflection disappeared entirely. I cranked the temperature higher, chasing the sting of Michael's words.
These people killed your client.
I wanted the heat to burn it out and wash away the protective fury that made me feel twelve again.
My brothers meant well. The McCabe family response to crisis was to circle the wagons and fix everything through sheer stubborn love.
I told myself I wasn't twelve anymore. I didn't need my older brothers to fight my battles.
I twisted the tap off. Water dripped from the showerhead in an irregular rhythm, echoing off the tile like a broken clock.
I tied a towel around my waist and padded to the bedroom, where I stood before the open closet. My fingers lingered on the coral button-down, the one that Matthew had once mentioned contrasted nicely with my eyes. I pulled it off the hanger, then stopped.
Was I dressing for Rowan?
I stared at the shirt in my hands, recognizing the vanity for what it was. I hung the shirt back up and grabbed a gray one instead. Then I second-guessed myself and reached for the coral again. Then back to gray.
