5. Miles
Chapter five
Miles
M y thumb hovered over Alex's contact for the third time in ten minutes. My coffee had gone cold beside my laptop, the cursor blinking accusingly at an empty email I'd started and abandoned twice.
Involving Alex meant involving his partner, my brother, Michael. Family protection instincts ran deep in the McCabe bloodline, and my brothers would circle the wagons the moment they caught wind of surveillance and dead clients.
Michael would want to take point, Marcus would demand a strategic plan, and Matthew would probably volunteer to escort me to therapy sessions.
None of which would help Iris.
I pressed call.
"Miles?" Alex's voice was warm and gentle as always. "Everything okay? It's barely nine AM."
"I need to ask you something. It's an academic favor." My rehearsed casual tone sounded artificial. "Hypothetically, if someone wanted to investigate whether medical databases were being accessed without authorization—"
"Hold on." Papers rustled, then silence. "Sorry, Luna knocked over my coffee mug. Again."
"Luna?"
"The dog. Michael didn't tell you?" Alex's voice brightened. "Adopted her last weekend. German Shepherd mix, about two years old. Previous owner couldn't handle her energy level, which should have been our first warning."
Despite everything weighing on me, I smiled. "Michael with a dog. Never thought I'd see the day."
"She's already got him wrapped around her paw. I caught him buying organic dog treats yesterday, muttering about proper nutrition." Alex chuckled. "He's researching training techniques like he's planning a tactical operation. Very serious business."
The normalcy of it—Michael fussing over a rescue dog while I contemplated surveillance and dead clients.
"Sounds about right."
"Anyway, what were you saying about medical databases? And who's someone ?"
The shift in tone reminded me of why Michael had fallen for him. Alex possessed the rare ability to cut through bullshit while remaining kind, a skill that served him well with undergraduates and McCabe men alike.
"Therapy session records. Electronic health record systems." I rubbed my forehead. "I think someone's been monitoring my client communications."
"Wow, Miles." A chair creaked, and I heard footsteps through the phone. "That's massive. Patient confidentiality violations. This is evidence tampering and wire fraud territory if electronic systems are involved."
"Which is why I need someone who understands digital forensics."
"No." The word landed with academic finality. "What you need is to report this to the proper authorities. State medical board, FBI, the people who handle healthcare fraud investigations."
My stomach clenched. "They'll want evidence I don't have."
"Then get it legally. File complaints, request investigations, document everything through official channels.
" Alex's voice softened slightly. "Miles, I know you want to help your clients, but if you're right about surveillance, you're dealing with serious criminal activity. Amateur hour usually gets people hurt."
"What if official channels don't work?"
"Then we cross that bridge when we get there." A pause. "But you try legitimate routes first. Promise me."
"Promise."
"Good. And Miles? Be careful who you tell about this. If someone's monitoring your client communications, they might be watching other things, too."
The line went quiet except for Luna's distant barking and what sounded like Michael's voice calling after her. I pictured Alex processing, possibly staring out toward the ocean from their Oregon home while weighing his words.
"Alex, there's something else." I told him about the incident that triggered all of this. "Someone called me. Sunday night, after dinner at Ma's."
"Called you how?"
"My work line. It was a digitally distorted voice, and they knew about my client, Iris. Knew about a place called Riverside where she'd gone for treatment." I gripped the phone tighter. "They said she wasn't the only one."
I heard Alex's sharp intake of breath. "What exactly did they say?"
"'Dr. McCabe, you don't know me, but we need to talk about Iris Delacroix. About what really happened at Riverside. About why she's not the only one.'" The words had seared themselves into my memory. "Then the line went dead."
"Damn." Footsteps again, faster now. "Miles, that's not a concerned citizen. That's someone with inside knowledge trying to make contact."
"I know."
"Do you? Because if you're right about surveillance, this caller might be the only person who can prove it. Or—" Alex's tone darkened. "They might be the ones doing the watching."
The possibility hadn't occurred to me. I'd focused so narrowly on the information the caller offered that I hadn't considered they might be fishing for my reaction, testing what I knew.
"Why didn't you report this immediately?"
"Because Iris is dead." I sighed. "Because I kept her last conversation confidential, and she died anyway. I didn't want some bureaucrat filing my report under grief-stricken therapist receives prank call."
"You thought they wouldn't take you seriously."
"I thought they'd assume I was projecting guilt by creating conspiracy theories." I stood, pacing to my kitchen window where Seattle's morning traffic crawled through persistent mist. "Which is exactly what happened when I tried to investigate Iris's death eighteen months ago."
"You investigated before?"
"Informal inquiries. Her case worker, the facility coordinator, anyone who might have details about this Riverside place." My reflection stared back from the rain-speckled glass, hollow-eyed and stubborn. "Got a lot of sympathetic nods and absolutely no information."
"Because they were protecting something."
"Or because there was nothing to protect and I was a grieving therapist seeing patterns that didn't exist." I turned away from my reflection. "Alex, what if I'm wrong about all of this? What if Iris did just—"
"Stop. You're not wrong about the surveillance. The question is whether they're trying to help you or manipulate you."
It was a crucial distinction. A whistleblower meant someone inside the system was fighting back. A manipulator meant they were drawing me deeper into whatever had killed Iris.
"How do I tell the difference?"
"You probably can't, not yet. But Miles—" Papers rustled again, and I heard the soft click of a pen. "This isn't only about your client anymore. Promise me you'll take this to the proper authorities before you do anything else."
"What if they shut me down like they did eighteen months ago?"
"Then we'll know the system's compromised, and we'll find another way. You try legitimate channels first. For Iris and your own protection."
"I'll try the state health department first."
"Good. And Miles? Whatever you do, don't meet with this caller alone. If they contact you again, bring backup. Bring Michael if you have to."
The idea of Michael stepping in scraped across my nerves. "I'm not involving my family."
"Your family got involved the moment someone started watching you. They just don't know it yet."
After I hung up from talking to Alex, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my electric toothbrush buzzing uselessly in my hand. Follow official channels. Document everything. Play by rules that might be rigged from the start.
I spat toothpaste into the sink.
Alex was right, but bureaucratic wheels moved slowly while someone targeting trauma survivors operated with precision and speed. How many more clients would disappear into programs like Riverside while I filed complaints and waited for investigations that might never materialize?
I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over Rowan's contact. He'd pushed me to act. He wanted me to look past the paper trail and trust what was happening in front of us. Reckless, maybe. Not necessarily wrong. I sent a text.
Miles: Department of Health this afternoon. Come with me?
Rowan: Address?
I sent building details and the name of the licensing official we'd be meeting. Less than half an hour later, Rowan had already mapped the most efficient transit route and suggested a meeting time that would avoid government lunch schedules.
I set the phone down and studied my closet longer than made sense. Professional but not threatening. Credible but not corporate. I pretended what I wore mattered to a woman who'd probably dismiss us regardless of our presentation.
Blue button-down. Navy slacks. The same outfit I wore to court appearances and medical consultations—armor disguised as business casual.
Coffee beckoned from the kitchen, but my stomach couldn't handle more caffeine.
Instead, I grabbed my briefcase and checked its contents twice: copies of Iris's timeline, documentation of the suspicious recruitment call, and printed emails from the roommate who'd witnessed her decline after Riverside.
It all looked inadequate. Paper trails that proved nothing more than coincidence. I tried to convince myself I wasn't tilting at windmills.
The state office building loomed ahead, a mid-century block of concrete and glass that looked more like efficiency frozen in stone than a place built for people.
Seattle's mist blurred its hard edges but couldn't make it inviting.
I checked my watch—ten minutes early, enough time to pace the sidewalk and rehearse arguments.
Rowan appeared from the Pioneer Square Light Rail station entrance a block down, striding toward me with the purposeful gait of someone who'd mapped every step between points A and B.
He'd dressed for bureaucrats—charcoal wool coat over dark jeans, messenger bag cutting a neat line across his chest—practical defiance that made it clear he wasn't impressed by official authority.