3. Miles
Chapter three
Miles
"Hello?" My voice came out gravelly, thick with interrupted dreams.
"Dr. McCabe? This is Rowan Ashcroft."
His name yanked me out of sleep faster than any alarm. I sat bolt upright in bed, sheets tangled around my legs. That voice—low, controlled, threaded with the same rough edge that had been lulling me to sleep for months through my earbuds.
"I—" I cleared my throat, fighting to sound professional instead of like a fan caught off guard. "Mr. Ashcroft. I wasn't expecting—"
"I got your email." His words cut clean through my fumbling. No preamble. No apology for the hour. "We need to talk about Iris Delacroix."
The familiar shadows of my apartment pressed closer. Through my bedroom window, Seattle sprawled in pre-dawn quiet, a few scattered lights marking other insomniacs or shift workers.
"It's three in the morning."
"I know what time it is." Something in his voice—not impatience, but urgency—put me on edge. "How long have you been carrying this guilt, Dr. McCabe?"
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 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.
I watched him order—black coffee, no sugar—while my stomach fluttered. This was Rowan Ashcroft. The voice that haunted my nights now had shoulders, stubble, and a gaze that didn't look away.
He returned with his coffee and settled into the chair across from me.
"So," I said, attempting the easy conversation that usually came naturally. "I have to admit, I wasn't expecting a call quite so early. Do all podcast hosts keep vampire hours, or—"
"You're nervous." He took a sip of his coffee, still watching me.
The directness of his statement caught me off guard. I was used to being the one asking questions, the one with professional distance. No social pleasantries, no easing into conversation—straight to the heart of things.
"Not nervous," I said, precisely what a nervous person would say. I winced at myself. "Okay, fine—maybe a little. I mean, it's not every day I meet the guy whose voice has been my white-noise machine slash sleeping pill for months."
"Has been what?"
"Helping me sleep. Your podcast, I mean."
My face flushed. How do you tell someone their voice has been your most intimate companion for years? That you know the rhythm of their breathing between thoughts, and how they pause before saying something difficult?
"I listen to it when I can't turn my brain off."
Rowan studied me for a long moment, eyes steady. Not cold, not prying—more like he was flipping pages in a book he already knew how to read.
"You didn't email me as a fan," he said finally, voice quiet but confident.
The words hit me like a diagnosis I hadn't been expecting.
"Tell me about Iris Delacroix," he continued, leaning forward slightly. "Everything you couldn't put in her file."
My throat went dry. The easy deflection I'd been reaching for—some quip about confidentiality or professional boundaries—vanished entirely. Rowan's gaze was steady and patient, like he had all the time in the world to wait for my answer.
"I can't—" I started, then stopped. "There are ethical considerations. Client confidentiality."
"She's dead." His voice was matter-of-fact. "And you've been drowning in whatever she told you for a year and a half."
If it had been anyone else, I would've shut down. Rowan Ashcroft wasn't anyone else. His voice had been in my head for years, and now it was in the room, stripping me bare.
"Even after death, there are limits, but I can tell you what she told me that night.
She called at two-thirty. Her breathing was ragged, but her words were clipped—too controlled—the way she got when fear had her by the throat.
I heard her mug rattling. She kept circling the same thing: she'd gone somewhere she shouldn't have. It was supposed to help. It didn't."
Rowan's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. "Did she mention Riverside by name?"
My chest tightened. "How do you—yes. She said she shouldn't have trusted them and that the program was wrong. So scared, saying she'd signed things, legal documents that meant she couldn't talk about it."
"And you promised not to document the call."
It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "She made me swear. Said if anyone found out she'd talked..." My voice fractured. "She was already dead a week later."
"You think it's your fault," he said.
"Isn't it?" The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "I had information. I knew something was wrong with this place, this program that had terrified her so badly she'd rather die than—" I stopped, feeling the gravity of my words. "I kept her secret. And she's dead."
Rowan was quiet for a long moment, studying my face with that unsettling intensity. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler than before.
"How many others have there been?"
"Others?"