4. Rowan
Chapter four
Rowan
M y spine went rigid.
"It's documentation." The words snapped out, ricocheting off the warehouse's brick walls. "Evidence preservation. Standard investigative protocol."
Miles didn't flinch. He stood in the center of my workspace, hands loose at his sides, studying the wall of faces. His scent reached me—clean cotton and the sharp bite of spearmint gum—cutting through the stale coffee and ozone of overworked electronics.
"Of course it is, but you've memorized their birthdays, haven't you? Their favorite songs. The names of their pets."
I swallowed, breath snagging in my throat. Below Devon Reeves's photograph, I'd pinned a Post-it note: Rescued three-legged beagle named Buster. Sang off-key to Fleetwood Mac in the shower.
How had he spotted that from fifteen feet away?
"That's not—" I started, then stopped. Lying to a therapist was futile. "It helps with the work."
"I'm sure it does." Miles turned toward me. "Keeping them alive in your mind while you fight for them in the real world. It's how we survive carrying other people's pain."
Therapist-speak. Other people's pain.
I'd spent three years telling myself I was merely conducting an investigation. The sleepless nights and obsessive cross-referencing were professional dedication. Aiyana's voice whispering through my dreams was simply unfinished business.
It took Miles McCabe ten minutes to dismantle the facade.
"You don't know what you're talking about." My words were hollow.
"Don't I?" He moved closer—not crowding.
"How long since you've taken a real day off?
When's the last time you had a conversation that wasn't about murder or conspiracy or justice?
Let me guess, when someone asks how you're doing, you respond with death tolls and funding schemes. I bet you're a real hit at parties."
My hands curled into fists. I wanted to step back, needing the space to think. Part of me wanted the comfort of a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, the steady rhythm of whisk against glass—something I could control.
"We're not here to psychoanalyze me," I managed.
"No. We're here because nine people are dead, and you've been carrying that weight alone for three years."
His recognition stole my breath.
"So what now?" Miles asked. "Two grief-stricken investigators walk into a conspiracy theory?"
The attempt at humor fell flat, but something about it—how he defaulted to deflection when things got too real—nearly made me smile.
I unclenched my fists. "Now we figure out if we can trust each other."
Moving to the long work table that dominated the center of the room, I opened a manila folder. The paper was soft with handling, edges worn from the number of times I'd spread the contents across various surfaces, searching for patterns that refused to emerge.
"This is everything I have on Iris." Police reports, newspaper clippings, social media screenshots, and timeline notes in my own handwriting scattered between us. "Official cause of death: suicide. Jumped from her apartment balcony at 2:32 AM on a Tuesday."
Miles approached the table. He studied the arrangement without touching anything.
"You're looking for a narrative."
"Stories have logic—even the twisted ones. Three weeks before her death, Iris went quiet on all social media. Complete radio silence."
Miles reached for one of the photos—a group at what looked like a birthday party. He traced the edge with two fingertips, not quite touching Iris's face.
"This is a photo from a month before she died," he said quietly. "She'd gotten a job promotion and planned a weekend trip with these friends."
I looked up from the documents. "You knew her well."
"Over a year of therapy. Twice weekly at first, then weekly as she stabilized.
" Miles pulled another document toward him—a newspaper clipping about workplace support groups.
"She was doing well. Exceptionally well.
Had started volunteering to help other survivors, and talked about maybe speaking at conferences someday. "
The pain in his voice remained controlled and professional, but I heard cracks underneath.
"So what happened? What made her go to Riverside?"
"Someone called her."
My gaze slid lower than it should have. His jeans fit close, drawn tight over his thighs and tapering over calves that flexed with every step—solid muscle, perhaps from cycling or running stairs.
I dragged my focus back up before he could notice, irritated at myself for letting anatomy intrude on homicide.
Miles spoke. "It was less than a week after that photo. A clipped, credentialed voice said they'd heard about her progress, had a program that could help her take the next step."
"Who referred her?"
"That's just it—nobody did. No therapist, no doctor, no medical professional in her network. This caller… appeared." Miles's jaw tightened. "They knew she was in therapy and was doing well, but I have no idea how."
I felt the familiar prickle at the base of my skull, the old Bureau instinct that meant I was close to something important.
"What did they promise her?"
"A breakthrough. Two weeks of intensive treatment would accomplish what might take years in traditional therapy. They called it accelerated trauma resolution."
"And she believed them?"
"Why wouldn't she? They sounded legitimate and professional. She checked their medical credentials and intake procedures." Miles met my gaze. "Iris was smart and cautious. She wouldn't have gone if it seemed suspicious."
I pulled out my notebook, fountain pen scratching across fresh paper.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miles pause. He stared at the pen in my hand.
“Montblanc Meisterstück?”
I froze. Most people never noticed. "Yeah. My grandfather carried it his whole career at the Bureau. Left it to me when he retired."
Miles reached into his jacket and pulled out his own pen, black lacquer gleaming in the warehouse light.
"My brother, Marcus, gave me one like that when I finished my doctorate," he said. "Said if I was going to be writing people's secrets down all day, I ought to do it with style."
A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. "Smart man."
Miles continued his story. "Then it all went catastrophically wrong for Iris. She called me that night, terrified, saying they were doing things that weren't therapy. That she'd signed papers she didn't understand." His hands gripped the table's edge. "And then she was dead."
"Have you seen this pattern with other clients?"
Miles hesitated, but something made him trust me.
"Three others. Maybe four. All contacted by programs I'd never heard of, all after making significant progress.
" His voice dropped. "Mrs. Kim disappeared for two weeks, came back.
.. different. Couldn't remember things she'd worked hard to process.
And another client, a veteran—he stopped showing up for appointments after someone called about a specialized program for military trauma. "
The familiar pattern aligned with cases from Phoenix, Austin, and Baltimore. Different facilities and different names, but the same methodology.
"They're hunting success stories," I said.
Miles looked at me sharply. "What?"
"Think about it. They're not targeting people at the beginning of recovery, when they're most vulnerable. They're waiting until clients have made real progress and are stable enough to be credible witnesses to healing." I tapped my pen against the notebook. "Then they destroy that progress."
"But why would anyone want to..." Miles trailed off.
I moved toward the evidence wall. The faces stared back at us—nine people whose healing had been weaponized against them.
"I don't know yet," I admitted. "Someone's benefiting from this pattern. Someone with resources, connections, and a reason to keep trauma victims from fully recovering."
Miles followed my gaze to the wall, scanning the photos and documentation. His eyes lingered on Dr. Celeste Harrow's professional headshot.
"You know her," I said carefully.
"Dr. Harrow." Miles's voice was cautious and measured. "She's... well, she's brilliant. Keynote speaker at every major trauma conference, published in all the top journals. Her research on memory processing is groundbreaking. I teach her paper in CE seminars."
"But?" I prompted.
Miles moved closer to Harrow's photo, studying it with the same intensity he'd given Iris's timeline. "Her work is impressive. Revolutionary, even. She's developed techniques that supposedly accelerate trauma recovery by months, sometimes years."
"Supposedly? You're hedging, Miles."
"The results she reports are almost too good to be true.
Recovery rates that exceed anything we see in traditional therapy.
" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Her methodology is proprietary.
She doesn't share specifics about her techniques, but she claims it's to protect patients from unqualified practitioners. "
The familiar Bureau prickle came back. "Convenient."
"I've always assumed it was legitimate professional discretion. She's respected by everyone in the field, consulted by government agencies, and invited to advise on treatment protocols." Miles faced me. "You're not seriously suggesting she's involved in this."
The doubt in his voice was clear, but so was the underlying uncertainty. He didn't want to believe someone of Harrow's stature could be part of what we were uncovering, but he couldn't quite dismiss the possibility either.
"I'm not suggesting anything definitive, but her name keeps appearing in my research. Facilities claiming to use her techniques, programs referencing her published work, and treatment centers with access to her proprietary methods."
Miles spoke in a neutral voice. "Even if that's true, it doesn't mean she's directly involved. Her work is referenced, cited, and sometimes misrepresented by people trying to legitimize questionable programs."
"You're right," I agreed. "But all the threads are worth investigating."