4. Rowan #2
"How do we find out?" Miles asked.
"Carefully," I said. "And together. You understand the therapeutic side of this in ways I never could. I have investigative resources and contacts you can't access alone."
Miles nodded slowly. "What's the first step?"
I pulled out a clean sheet of paper, fountain pen ready. "We map everything. Every client contact, every facility reference, and every connection to established trauma research. We build a web until it's clear who's at the center of it."
"And if it leads back to someone like Harrow?"
I captured his gaze. "Then we follow the evidence wherever it takes us. No matter how uncomfortable the destination."
Miles returned his attention to the evidence wall.
"This is..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I see why these dots tempt you to draw lines, but I need something I can't explain away."
The skepticism in his voice caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"Trauma survivors are already vulnerable. Relapse rates are high, suicide rates are higher than average, and yes, some people seek alternative treatments when traditional therapy isn't working fast enough. Correlation isn't causation."
"You think I haven't considered that?"
"I think you've been alone with this for three years, and pattern recognition can become pattern creation when you're too close to the data.
" His voice was gentle but firm. "I see it with clients who've experienced trauma.
They start seeing threats everywhere, connections that confirm their worst fears. "
The comparison stung. "You think I'm paranoid."
"I think you're grieving. And grief can make us see conspiracies when it's only tragedy.
" Miles moved along the wall, studying individual photos.
"These people—they were already fragile.
Maybe the programs they entered were legitimate but poorly executed.
Maybe they were scams, but isolated ones.
That doesn't mean there's some coordinated effort to—"
"To what?" I interrupted. "To systematically destroy trauma recovery?"
"To do what you're suggesting, yes." Miles faced me. "Do you understand what you're implying? You're suggesting respected researchers, licensed facilities, and ethical review boards are all either complicit or incompetent."
My jaw clenched. "I'm implying that someone with resources and connections is exploiting gaps in oversight."
"Mood boards and hunches aren't proof." Miles pointed at my case wall. "If we chase the wrong pattern, we bury the truth. Give me one fact that doesn't harmonize."
I'd heard the skepticism before, from supervisors at the Bureau and colleagues who thought I was too invested in individual cases.
"Nine people are dead," I said.
"Nine people with documented mental health struggles died by suicide.
That's tragic, but it's not evidence of murder.
" Miles rubbed his forehead, looking suddenly exhausted.
"I came here because I thought you might have information about Iris.
Not because I wanted to be recruited into a crusade against the psychiatric establishment. "
He turned toward my desk, clearly preparing to leave. "You should take this to the proper authorities. State medical boards, the FBI—"
"I tried the proper authorities. They told me there wasn't enough evidence."
"Maybe because there isn't enough evidence." Miles reached for his jacket. "What you're describing would require a level of coordination that would be almost impossible to sustain without detection."
I watched him prepare to walk away, taking with him any chance I had of understanding what had really happened to these people.
"They knew about the mountaintop," I said quietly.
Miles froze, his hand halfway through his jacket sleeve.
"What did you say?"
I moved to Iris's section of the wall, pulling out a folder I'd hoped never to open in front of him. "The intake coordinator who called Iris. According to her roommate, they mentioned her breakthrough using childhood safe spaces."
Miles turned slowly, his face pale. "That's impossible."
"The roommate remembered because it was so specific.
The caller said the program could help Iris build on her mountaintop visualization work to achieve faster healing.
" I watched his expression change as the implications hit him.
"But that terminology—mountaintop visualization—that's not standard therapeutic language. "
"No," Miles whispered. "It's not."
"It was something specific to Iris's therapy, wasn't it? Something personal that wouldn't appear in any insurance records or intake forms."
Miles didn't answer immediately. He stared at the documentation in my hands, his breathing shallow.
"She told me about it in session six." His voice was barely audible. "Her grandparents used to take her to the top of Mount Washington every summer. It was her only happy memory from childhood, before her parents' divorce. We used it as an anchor point for grounding exercises."
"An anchor point that helped her feel safe when something triggered her."
"Yes, but I never wrote it down. It was too personal and specific. I kept it in my head because..." He looked at me, understanding dawning. "Because she asked me not to document it. Said it was too sacred to put in a file."
The warehouse was quiet except for the hum of my equipment. Miles moved closer to the wall, studying Iris's photo.
"Someone was listening," he said.
"Someone was listening to your sessions.
Real-time monitoring that gave them access to the most intimate details of her therapeutic process.
" I pulled out another document. "And they used that information to make their recruitment pitch sound legitimate, personal, and tailored to her specific healing journey. "
Miles reached for the wall, his hand hovering near Iris's photo. "She would have thought they had a connection to me. That's not just unethical. That's..."
"That's how they knew exactly when to contact her. When she was stable enough to trust their promises but not stable enough to resist sophisticated manipulation." I moved to stand beside him. "And it means they have access to other therapists' sessions too."
Miles was quiet, processing. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.
"The other clients I mentioned. Mrs. Kim, the veteran. If someone was monitoring their sessions too..."
"Then maybe we can trace the surveillance and determine how they access confidential therapeutic communications."
Miles looked at me, and his skepticism began to turn.
He stood motionless beside my evidence wall, holding his jacket limp in one hand. "You're asking me to believe that someone is systematically murdering trauma survivors through fake therapy programs. That requires extraordinary evidence."
"What about the surveillance? The mountaintop detail?"
"That's one piece of information that suggests Iris's therapy sessions were compromised. That's still far from proving a coordinated conspiracy across multiple facilities."
"So what would prove it? What would it take for you to believe this is real?"
Miles was silent as he considered. "Documentation of systematic surveillance. Evidence that multiple therapists' sessions are being monitored. Proof that patient information is being used to target recruitment."
"And how would we get that proof?"
"Carefully. And legally." He turned back to my laptop screen. "I use an electronic health record system—MindLink Pro. If unauthorized access happens, there will be digital fingerprints. I've had two after-hours login alerts I wrote off as glitches. You're sowing doubt."
It was a spark of hope. "You know how to investigate that?"
"I know someone who might but..." Miles paused, his expression conflicted. "I'm not ready to commit to anything beyond exploring whether Iris's sessions were specifically compromised."
"That's a start."
"It's a small start, and it doesn't mean I believe all of this. It means I'm willing to investigate one specific violation of therapeutic confidentiality."
"Fair enough." I pulled out a fresh notebook. "Where do we begin?"
"We don't begin anywhere. I begin by checking my own systems for signs of unauthorized access. If I find evidence that someone monitored my sessions with Iris, we can discuss next steps."
The boundary he set was clear, professional, and designed to limit his exposure while allowing for a focused investigation. I wanted to push harder to make him see the scope of what we were facing.
Instead, I nodded. "How long will that take?"
"A few days, maybe a week. I'll need to review system logs, check access histories, and possibly bring in…
someone I know." Miles stood, preparing to leave again.
"And I'll need to be careful. If someone is monitoring therapists' systems, investigating the surveillance could trigger unwanted attention. "
The acknowledgment that surveillance was possible—even probable—was progress.
"Will you keep me informed?" I asked.
"If I find anything relevant to Iris's case, yes." Miles moved toward the door, then stopped. "But Rowan, I need you to understand something. Even if I find evidence that my sessions were compromised, that doesn't validate everything you've shown me here."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He turned back toward me. "I understand that you've been carrying this alone for so long that you're ready to accept any ally, even one with serious reservations about your conclusions."
The assessment was uncomfortably accurate. I had been desperate for someone to believe me and share the weight of what I'd discovered. Miles wasn't ready to be that person—not yet.
"I only want the truth," I said.
"So do I, but I want to find it through careful investigation, not confirmation bias." Miles pulled out a business card and wrote something on the back. "My personal number. Call me if you find new evidence—real evidence, not more pattern recognition."
He handed me the card, our fingers brushing briefly.
Miles paused near a shelf, his gaze lingering on a firefighter challenge coin. "Seattle FD?"
"My brother. Captain Jake Ashcroft. Station 10."
Something shifted in Miles's expression—not surprise, but recognition.
Understanding.
"My father was a firefighter," he said quietly. "Died in a refinery fire when I was twelve."
I'd spent three years working alone, forgetting that others carried similar weights.
That someone could understand the particular fear of loving family members who ran toward danger.
"Jake's been after me to move closer to family, stop working so many late nights.
" I gestured toward the evidence wall. "He thinks I'm too isolated. "
"Smart brother."
"Yeah. He is." I met Miles's gaze. "Probably wouldn't approve of me dragging a stranger into this mess."
"Maybe not a stranger, not anymore."
"And Miles?" I said as he reached for the door handle.
"Yeah?"
"Be careful checking your systems. If I'm right about any of this, investigating the surveillance could put you on their radar."
He paused. "You think they're watching you?"
"I think they watch anyone who asks too many questions about the dead."
Miles looked back at me. I saw genuine concern in his expression.
"Maybe you should be careful, too," he said quietly. "Your brother's already lost enough."
The reference to Jake—to family, to the people who'd grieve if something happened to me—hit harder than any professional warning could have.