Page 27 of Borrowed Pain
Miles McCabe wasn't just a source anymore. He was an investigative partner. Maybe something more.
Rain continued its assault on the warehouse windows, each impact reminding me that Seattle kept its secrets buried deep. But this one—this network of phantom facilities and manufactured trust—was about to surface, whether it wanted to or not.
I moved to the filing cabinet, pulling out Lucia's folder. Her photograph stared back at me, dark eyes bright with the intelligence that made her a formidable investigator. She'd died believing she was close to exposing Healing Horizons. Now Miles and I stood on the threshold of something potentially even larger.
"We're going to finish what you started," I whispered to her image.
The warehouse settled around me, brick and steel. For the first time since I'd pinned Lucia's photo to my evidence wall, the space didn't feel like a mausoleum.
It felt like a war room.
And tomorrow, we'd find out whether we were the hunters or the prey.
Chapter seven
Miles
The phone's buzz woke me with a start. I fumbled for it in the dark, my fingers clumsy with sleep, expecting to see a client's name or the crisis hotline number.
Instead, Michael's contact photo glared back at me—that serious SWAT headshot, intimidation forward.
Six-fourteen AM. Shit.
"Hello?" My voice sounded like sandpaper.
"Alex told me." No preamble, no good morning. It was the McCabe blend of fury and protective terror I'd heard since childhood. "Said you're investigating surveillance and dead clients. What the hell, Miles?"
I sat up too fast, the room swaying. The metallic taste of morning coated my tongue. "Good morning to you, too, sunshine. How's Oregon? The ocean still wet?"
"Cut the shit." His words snapped through the phone. "Some random creep knew about a dead patient. Knew things they shouldn't. And your plan was to play cowboy?"
My bare feet hit the cold hardwood. Michael's voice lodged under my skin. "I didn't, I went to the authorities, and it's not that simple—"
"It's exactly that simple. Someone's been spying on you and your patients, and you want to investigate it alone like some kind of—" He stopped himself, but I heard the word he didn't say.Idiot.
"Like some kind of what, Michael?"
"Like someone who doesn't understand how dangerous this could be." His voice dropped into that tactical register he used when coordinating with hostage negotiators. "Give me details. The caller—male or female? How'd they get your number? What did they know?"
I walked to my kitchen window, pressing my forehead against the glass. Seattle's pre-dawn streets stretched empty below. A garbage truck rumbled past, hydraulics wheezing.
"I can handle this."
"Like hell you can." I heard the sound of a collar jingling in the background. "Miles, listen to me. If someone's monitoring your therapy sessions, they've committed federal crimes. These people are serious. They're not playing games."
The window reflection showed me what I didn't want to see—disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes.
"I only asked Alex about a hypothetical. I don't want the family involved."
"You don't get to choose that. We were involved the moment someone targeted you." Papers rustled on his end. "I've got contacts. I can make some calls."
"No. Michael, no. I appreciate the offer, but I'm not turning this into a federal case before I understand what I'm dealing with."
"What you're dealing with is someone who's been watching you and listening to confidential conversations. How is this not a federal case?"
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance—emergency responders heading toward someone else's crisis.
"Because maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Iris's death was what it looked like, and I'm creating conspiracies out of guilt and coincidence." The admission tasted bitter. "Maybe I'm the unreliable narrator in this story."
