Page 85 of Borrowed Pain
Dr. Harrow, I'll meet you tomorrow at 2 PM. Room 314, Harborview Clinical Research Wing.
Either I was walking toward witnessing a breakthrough that could revolutionize trauma therapy, or I was about to become another cautionary tale about professional hubris and psychological manipulation.
If Harrow were legitimate—if her protocols could heal trauma efficiently and permanently—then meeting her might be the most important professional decision I'd ever make.
Even if it meant betraying Rowan's trust to find out.
My phone buzzed.
Rowan:Extraction proceeding. Stay safe. We'll debrief everything when I get back
I stared at the message, recognizing how much I was keeping from him and how much I'd decided without consultation.
Miles:Stay safe, too. I love you
I didn't tell him about tomorrow's meeting. Didn't share my growing suspicion that revolutionary science might be more important than retrospective justice.
The weight of withholding pressed against my ribs. Tomorrow, while Rowan debriefed Rook and processed witness testimony, I'd be sitting across from a researcher whose techniques were corrupted and used against trauma survivors. I'd be evaluating professional opportunities in private, making decisions that could fundamentally alter my career without consulting the person who'd become my most trusted partner.
Some decisions, I was learning, had to be made alone. Even when making them alone might be a first step toward losing everything that mattered.
Chapter eighteen
Rowan
The port district reeked of creosote and diesel exhaust, clinging to the back of my throat. I cut the engine three blocks from Pier 91, coasting into a parking space between two rusted-out work trucks. The silence felt wrong—too complete, like the city holding its breath.
Shipping containers stacked five high created a metal canyon system, each corridor a potential kill box. I counted exit routes while walking the perimeter: two vehicle access points, a gap in the fence line big enough for a man, and the water if things went catastrophically sideways.
My earpiece crackled with Dorian's voice. "Visual on the northwest approach. Clear so far."
"Copy." I adjusted the transmitter clipped inside my jacket. "Moving to position."
The container yard sprawled ahead like an industrial maze. Shadows swallowed the spaces between rows. Perfect for concealment, but terrible for maintaining situational awareness. Every corner could hide surveillance, and every gap between containers could funnel me into crossfire.
I positioned myself against a blue Maersk container, back to the steel, clear sightlines down two corridors. The metal was cold enough to bite through my jacket. I checked my watch—seven minutes early.
My phone buzzed against my ribs. Text message from an unknown number:
Unknown:Container 43G. Come alone.
I scanned the nearest container markings. 23F. 31A. The numbers followed no pattern I could decipher, scattered across the yard like dropped dice. Finding 43G would require moving deeper into the maze, away from my carefully chosen position.
Footsteps scraped against gravel somewhere to my left. It was too heavy for Rook and too deliberate to be casual. I ducked into the shadows, hand moving instinctively toward the Glock under my arm.
The footsteps passed, fading toward the waterfront. It was likely dock security making rounds.
Container 43G sat wedged between two towering stacks, accessible through a narrow corridor that could have been a trap. I fought back an instinct to flee.
As I moved toward the container, the air tasted of salt and rust, industrial decay that reminded me of Baltimore's harbor district, where Lucia had worked her last case. It was the same maze-like industrial geography.
Movement flickered at the corridor's far end. A figure emerged from behind container 43G, stumbling instead of walking. At fifty yards away, I saw that something was fundamentally wrong with how he moved—unsteady, erratic, like a man fighting his own nervous system.
"Rook," I called softly.
The figure froze, then lurched toward me with desperate urgency. As he came closer, his face became clear, and my stomach dropped. Tobias Rook looked like death had already claimed most of him and was coming back for the rest.
"Stay back." His voice was hoarse and strained. He swayed against the container's corrugated wall, one hand pressed flat against the steel for support. "How do I know they didn't send you?"
