Page 8 of Borrowed Pain
Perfect therapist echo. I opened my mouth to deflect and make a joke about counselors not needing therapy, but the words died in my throat. Something about the darkness and his voice coming through my phone at this impossible hour stripped away my usual defenses.
"Eighteen months," I whispered.
"That's too long." A pause. I heard the faint sound of papers rustling on his end. "There's a place near my building—Harbor & Slate. Do you know it?"
"Yeah, a few blocks south of Pine, right?"
"Seven-thirty. We'll talk then."
"Wait—" The line had already gone dead.
I stared at my phone's glowing screen, pulse still racing. Rowan Ashcroft had called me at 2:30 AM about a dead client, arranged to meet in a few hours, and hung up without explanation. Ninety seconds, and the ground under me shifted.
I lay back against my pillows, knowing sleep was impossible now. My mind churned. How had he gotten my personal number? What did he know about Iris that I didn't? And why did his voice, even discussing death and guilt, make my pulse quicken?
I climbed out of bed and padded to the kitchen, bare feet cold against the hardwood. Through my window, the city remained swathed in its pre-dawn hush, but everything hummed with electric anticipation inside my apartment.
In four hours, I'd be sitting across from the man whose voice had become the soundtrack to my insomnia. And maybe—finally—I'd get some answers about what really happened to Iris Delacroix.
The coffee maker gurgled to life. I poured it into my favorite mug—an absurdly oversized ceramic monstrosity that read "World's Okayest Therapist" in cheerful yellow letters. It was a graduation gift from Matthew who'd claimed it was motivational.
Standing at my kitchen window, I watched the first stirring of a city waking up. Delivery trucks rumbled past, their diesel engines cutting through the early quiet. A jogger in neon yellow bounded up Pine Street, breath visible in small puffs.
I was watching it all from behind glass, separate from the normal rhythm of Monday morning Seattle.
How long have you been carrying this guilt?
Rowan's question had burrowed under my skin, taken up residence in my chest where it sat heavy and accusatory. Eighteen months. I'd been carrying Iris for eighteen months; somehow, this stranger knew how much it weighed.
The shower water ran hotter than usual. I told myself it was because of the early hour and the chill in my apartment, but I was really trying to wash away the restless energy that had been crawling through my veins since the call. My hands shook slightly as I shaved—not from caffeine, but from anticipation.
After occupying myself with old TV for two hours, I stared at my closet longer than made sense. I chose jeans and a button-down, my usual uniform for days that weren't strictly professional.
Then, I began second-guessing the blue shirt, switching to gray, then back to blue. Like what I wore mattered to a man I'd never met, who'd called me about a dead client at three in the morning.
Get it together, McCabe.
By the time I headed down Pine, coffee shop–bound and twenty minutes early, I couldn't shake the sensation that everything about my life was about to change.
Harbor & Slate sat a few blocks off Melrose, tucked into a converted Victorian that had somehow survived Seattle's relentless march toward glass and steel. The morning rush hadn't hit yet—just a handful of commuters nursing lattes and scrolling through their phones. The scents of espresso and singed toast drifted around me like a security blanket.
I ordered my usual—medium roast, no room—and claimed a table near the window where I could watch for Rowan. My leg bounced under the table, nervous energy with nowhere to go. I'd listened to his voice for months and studied his photo on the podcast website, but waiting to meet him was surreal.
At exactly seven-twenty-eight, he walked in. I knew it was him instantly, and the recognition hit like vertigo. For three years, Rowan Ashcroft had existed only as a voice in my earbuds—my most reliable companion through sleepless nights, the presence I turned to when Iris's ghost wouldn't leave me alone.
Now here he was, occupying actual space, casting an actual shadow.
He threaded through the café quietly vigilant, scanning the room like he couldn't stop himself from mapping every exit. Then he spotted me, and his sharpness softened—just a flicker.
Dark hair fell over his forehead until he raked it back, sleeves shoved up to reveal forearms that could fix your sink or pin you against a wall. He was practical, capable, and hotter for not caring whether he looked hot at all.
"Dr. McCabe." He extended his hand as he reached the table. His grip was firm, calloused—proof that the voice I'd been falling asleep to existed in the physical world, fixed things, lifted heavy objects, and lived a life I knew nothing about.
"Miles," I said, gesturing to the empty chair across from me. "Thanks for meeting me. Can I—coffee?"
"I'll get it." He was already turning toward the counter. "Don't go anywhere."
It wasn't a request.
