2. Rowan
Chapter two
Rowan
I dragged my cursor back to the beginning of the clip and hit play again.
"Mia was doing so well with her regular therapist and really making progress after the—" A micro-pause. "After what happened to her. Then someone called about this specialized program. Said it could help her breakthrough happen faster."
The coffee beside my keyboard had developed a skin. I ignored it and leaned into the headphones, fingers dancing across the equalizer. Mrs. Torres's voice needed to breathe in the mix, allowing listeners to hear the questions she wasn't asking.
My apartment smelled like burnt electronics and the faint residue of cardamom from my morning stress-baking session.
Behind me, case boards climbed the exposed brick like ivy made of photographs and red string.
Three years of patterns. Three years of connecting dots that kept forming the same ugly picture.
Mia Torres. Age 24. Sexual assault survivor. Six months of steady progress with licensed therapist. Recruited for "intensive retreat program." Dead 3 weeks later.
I adjusted the compression on her mother's voice, and my jaw clenched. Episode 247 of my podcast, Silent Service: "Echoes of Silence, Part 4." Four victims so far, all following the same trajectory from healing to hell.
The cursor blinked at me. Waiting.
My phone buzzed against the desk—an email notification. I almost deleted it without reading. Sunday night tips were usually garbage: conspiracy theories about lizard people or detailed confessions from people who'd watched too much True Detective .
The timestamp made me pause—11:49 PM on a Sunday. Somebody couldn't sleep.
The sender line read "Dr. Miles McCabe." Unknown name, but the subject grabbed my attention: "Silent Service inquiry - confidential matter."
I minimized the audio editing software and opened the message.
Mr. Ashcroft,
I'm a longtime listener to Silent Service, particularly your recent series on suspicious death patterns among trauma survivors. I'm writing regarding a case that may align with your research.
Eighteen months ago, I lost a client—Iris Delacroix.
Officially ruled suicide, but circumstances surrounding her death raise questions I haven't been able to resolve through conventional channels.
Prior to her death, she mentioned attending a treatment program called Riverside that caused her significant distress.
I believe Ms. Delacroix's case may connect to the patterns you've documented. I'd welcome the opportunity to discuss this matter if you feel it warrants investigation.
Respectfully, Dr. Miles McCabe, PsyD, Licensed Clinical Psychologist
I read the email three times.
It was meticulously worded, careful to avoid liability. Lost a client instead of my patient died . Circumstances raise questions instead of something's wrong . Conventional channels instead of the cops won't listen .
Underneath the clinical precision, desperation bled through. And what kind of therapist emailed an investigative podcaster at midnight on a Sunday?
Potentially one struggling under eighteen months of guilt.
My pulse quickened. I swiveled toward the filing cabinet behind my desk. The metal drawer shrieked. There it was. Manila folder, thick with details: "Delacroix, I. - Suspicious Circumstances."
I spread the contents across my desk. Newspaper clipping with her photo—a young woman with intelligent eyes and a smile that didn't know what was coming. Police report, frustratingly brief. Timeline I'd constructed from public records and social media archaeology.
Iris Delacroix, 29. Software engineer. Survived workplace mass shooting three years prior. Making documented progress in therapy. Then—gap. Three weeks of radio silence on all social platforms. Then dead on the sidewalk outside her Capitol Hill apartment.
The holes in my research stared back at me. I'd never been able to access her therapy records, and I'd never found the Riverside program she'd mentioned to her coworkers before disappearing.
Now, her therapist was in my inbox.
I sat back and rubbed my eyes, feeling the grit of sleeplessness. The warehouse hummed on, wires and drives buzzing like a hive.
Something about Dr. McCabe's phrasing— circumstances raise questions —aggravated a memory I'd been trying to bury for more than six years.
Baltimore field office, August 2019. Case file stamped "Healing Horizons Wellness Retreat - Investigation Suspended."
The taste of stale vending machine coffee flooded my mouth. I drummed fingers against the desk in sequences of four. The federal building's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Suddenly, I was 29 again, staring at a case board that looked disturbingly similar to the one hanging behind me now.
Dr. Aiyana Blackhorse, 26 years old. Pueblo heritage, military veteran, Purple Heart recipient.
Her photo was crystal clear in my memory—dark hair pulled back, eyes that had seen too much but could still appreciate humor.
She'd survived an IED blast in Syria that killed three members of her unit—suffering from PTSD, survivor's guilt, and the standard cocktail of trauma that came home with too many soldiers.
Aiyana was a fighter. Six months of therapy with a VA counselor. Real progress documented in her file. She'd started painting again, reconnected with her sister, and even began dating someone from her art class.
Then, someone called her.
"Specialized program," they said. "Cutting-edge treatment for veterans. Fully funded. Just two weeks to the breakthrough that takes years of traditional therapy."
Healing Horizons nestled in the Virginia mountains like a luxury spa for broken minds.
I'd interviewed her sister, Rosa, after they found Aiyana's body in the Potomac three months later. Rosa's voice still echoed in the warehouse around me, sharp with grief and fury.
"She came back wrong, Agent Ashcroft. Like they'd scraped out pieces of her and forgot to put them back.
She couldn't remember things—good things.
Our grandmother's stories. The songs she used to sing.
But the nightmares? Those got worse. They amplified every terrible memory and muted everything else. "
My supervisor had been crystal clear: insufficient evidence for federal charges. The Bureau shrugged. Consent forms. Congressional connections.
"You know what your problem is, Ashcroft? You think justice and law are the same thing. They're not. Law is what we can prove in court. Justice is a luxury we can't afford."
Six months later, I turned in my badge.
I'd tried. Fuck it all, I'd tried. But Aiyana was still dead, and Rosa Blackhorse still called me every few months asking if there were any updates.
I stood abruptly, chair rolling backward into the filing cabinet with a metallic crash. The evidence wall riveted my attention. Eight faces stared back at me, connected by red string that mapped a conspiracy I'd been tracking piece by piece for three years.
Healing Horizons wasn't an isolated incident. It was a beta test.
My hands shook as I reached for my box of pushpins.
I pinned Iris at number nine and drew red string to Aiyana, Devon Reeves (Phoenix), and River Baptiste (Austin).
The pattern coalesced like stars forming a constellation—a network of facilities promising revolutionary care, leaving behind a trail of damaged minds and dead bodies.
The scope of it stole my breath. How many cities? How many programs? How many Dr. McCabes out there were carrying eighteen months of guilt for clients they couldn't save?
I grabbed my phone and pulled up the email again. It wasn't about one dead woman anymore. It was about finding the thread that could unravel everything.
Miles McCabe might be the only person alive who could help me pull it.
It was 2:17 AM, and I'd spent over two hours cross-referencing files, building timelines, and staring at faces that deserved better than they'd gotten. I stared at Miles's email again, phone in hand.
Responding meant breaking the cardinal rules I'd followed since leaving the Bureau: Work alone. Trust no one. Control every variable. Therapists came with ethics constraints, legal obligations, and institutional loyalties that could sink an investigation before it started.
But Miles had reached out to me. On a Sunday night. Using language that suggested he understood the stakes.
More importantly, he had access to something I'd never been able to obtain: the inside view. He likely had therapy records, professional networks, and the kind of clinical insight that could distinguish between genuine treatment and sophisticated manipulation.
I opened a new browser tab and searched for his practice. Capitol Hill address, respectable credentials, and client testimonials that mentioned his work with trauma survivors.
His photo showed someone younger than I'd expected—dark, swept-back hair, eyes weighted with the exhaustion I knew in my bones. Not a polished headshot, but raw, unguarded, and almost too honest for a professional profile.
I should've filed it away like any other data point. Instead, my gaze caught on his mouth—its curve hinting at warmth he probably didn't mean to show.
A spark lit low in my gut. Unwelcome. Undeniable.
I grabbed my notebook and flipped to a fresh page.
My fountain pen—the Montblanc my grandfather carried through three decades of federal service—scratched against the paper with authority.
He'd taught me that handwritten notes couldn't be hacked, deleted, or subpoenaed as easily as email or phone calls.
Dr. Miles McCabe - therapist, Seattle - Iris Delacroix connection - URGENT.
Call Monday morning. Voice assessment. Verify credentials. Assess risk level.
Aiyana deserves justice. They all do.
The freight train whistle sounded again, pulling my attention to the window. Dawn was still hours away, but the city was already starting to wake—garbage trucks and the early commuters who kept Seattle functioning while most people slept.
I looked back at the case board. Miles McCabe might be the key I'd been searching for. Perhaps he was the inside source who could finally crack open whatever was happening to these people—the partner who could help me turn 3 years of frustration into something resembling justice.
I closed my laptop and left the podcast edit suspended mid-sentence. Mrs. Torres would have to wait a few more hours for me to tell her daughter's story properly.
The phone rang twice. A sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"
"Dr. McCabe? This is Rowan Ashcroft."