Page 88 of Borrowed Pain
Inside, Miles was waiting for answers I didn't know how to give—waiting for hope I no longer felt.
I sat in the car for five minutes, trying to construct a professional debrief. When I finally climbed the stairs and swiped my card at the door, I knew there was no hiding from what had happened.
The lock disengaged with its familiar electronic chirp. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Miles looked up from Dorian's workstation, and I watched his expression shift from relief to alarm in a heartbeat. Charliepadded over, tail wagging tentatively, but even the dog seemed to sense something was wrong.
"Where's Rook?"
"Dead."
Miles's face went pale, and he took a half-step toward me before stopping, reading something in my posture that warned him to proceed carefully.
"Suicide—self-administered poison," I began, voice steady and detached. "He was already dying when I arrived, approximately thirty minutes after taking it."
"Rowan." Miles's voice was soft, careful. "Sit down."
"I need to document—" My voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly I couldn't remember why documentation mattered. Rook was dead. Patricia was in custody. Years of investigation had just collapsed into nothing.
Miles moved toward me with the gentle approach he probably used with traumatized clients. "The documentation can wait. Sit down."
My legs gave out before I could argue, and I sat in the chair beside Dorian's monitors, staring at surveillance feeds of empty streets. Miles disappeared into the kitchen area, returning with a mug of something that steamed and smelled like chamomile.
"Drink," he said.
The tea tasted like nothing, but the heat anchored me and reminded me I was still alive while Rook wasn't.
"I held another dying witness," I whispered. "Like Lucia, except this time I was there to watch it happen."
Miles settled into the chair beside me. "Tell me what happened."
The words spilled out in broken fragments—Rook's paranoia, the poisoning, his final confession about Patricia's impossible position. Miles listened without interruption, occasionallyreaching out to touch my hand or shoulder when my voice threatened to fail.
"He loved her," I said finally. "Patricia. They'd been together for two years, and he knew that staying alive meant she could never use her evidence. So he killed himself to set her free."
"Fuck," Miles breathed.
"Everyone who helps me dies, Miles. Lucia, Rook, probably Patricia before this is over."
"That's not—"
"What if I'm the common denominator?" The question erupted out of me. "What if I'm the reason they all get killed? Maybe I'm not hunting a conspiracy—maybe I'm the bait that draws people to their death."
Miles was quiet for a long moment. I could almost hear his therapist's brain processing my words and calculating a trauma response.
"You didn't poison Rook," he said finally. "You didn't push Lucia's car off the road. You didn't orchestrate Patricia's arrest."
Miles spoke with quiet authority. "They're dead because other people killed them. Rook didn't die because he met you tonight. He died because he witnessed crimes, and they know he's been gathering evidence."
I shook my head. "You don't understand. There's a pattern here—"
"What pattern?" Miles refused to let me hide behind professional distance. "Walk me through it. Step by step."
"Every person who's helped me ends up dead or destroyed." I stood abruptly, needing space to pace. "Lucia investigates with me, dies in a car accident. Rook agrees to testify, disappears for three years, and dies tonight. Patricia documents evidence, gets arrested."
"And you think you caused all of that?" Miles remained seated, watching me. "Help me understand the mechanism. How exactly did your investigation kill Lucia?"
The question stopped me mid-pace. "What?"
