Page 29 of Borrowed Pain
Fuck. I was twenty-eight years old, wearing only underwear and having an existential crisis over shirt colors.
The coral shirt won. I told myself it was because it was cleaner, not because of how Rowan looked at me when I placed my hand over his.
My phone buzzed again. This time, a text message.
Rowan:Still meeting at 10? Found something you need to see
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The cursor blinked expectantly, waiting for a response.
Was he talking about the investigation?
Miles:See you soon
After checking my client schedule, I sank into two hours of an old movie. When I left my apartment, Seattle was fully awake. I gripped my hybrid's steering wheel tighter than necessary, the engine humming beneath a symphony of honking horns.
An NPR report crackled through my radio speakers. The host's measured voice discussed healthcare fraud investigations in three different states.
"—federal prosecutors allege that the wellness network used sophisticated surveillance techniques to target vulnerable patients, exploiting confidential medical information to—"
I turned the radio off and glanced at my phone seated in a cup holder. One call, and I could have federal resources, protective custody, and an entire apparatus of law enforcement expertise.
Instead, I was driving toward a converted warehouse to see a man whose voice was the soundtrack to my insomnia.
Rowan's building materialized ahead, brick and steel catching the overcast morning in shades of gray and amber. In daylight, it looked less like a fortress and more like what it was—a converted warehouse where artists, tech workers, and damaged federal agents moved in to reinvent themselves.
I climbed out of the car, shoulders stiff from carrying too many secrets. As I stepped out of the elevator, Rowan's hallway stretched ahead.
I approached 3F, raising my hand to knock.
The door opened before my knuckles touched wood.
Rowan stood in the doorway, taking in my appearance with his analyst's attention to detail. His hair was damp from a recent shower, dark strands falling across his forehead. He wore jeans and a black Henley that clung to his torso, highlighting a muscular chest.
"You look like someone who's had a morning," he said, stepping aside to let me in.
My face must have been an open book—the phone call with Michael and the radio report—an expression built on stress.
"My brother called," I said, following him into the warehouse. "Michael. The SWAT officer I mentioned."
"Ah." Rowan moved toward his desk, where fresh documents were spread across the surface. "Family circling the wagons?"
"Something like that." I watched Rowan move. "He wants to bring in federal contacts and turn this into an official investigation."
Rowan froze. "And?"
"And I told him no. I told him I trusted you."
"Miles." His voice was softer. "There's something we need to discuss."
New documents covered the work table like fallen leaves—printouts and photographs, financial records, and what looked like building schematics. More red string stretched between pushpins.
"What did you find?" I asked.
Rowan's fingers drummed against the surface with restless energy. "Meridian Wellness Group owns seventeen facilities across six states. They all follow the same pattern—shell companies, P.O. box addresses, no actual treatment locations."
I picked up one of the documents. "So where do they take people?"
"That's the problem." Rowan moved away from the table, putting distance between himself and the evidence. "We don't know. And if we push too hard to find out..."
