5. Miles #2
My heart pounded. The voice that had kept me company through sleepless nights now belonged to a man who moved through the world with calculated precision, gray-green eyes constantly searching for potential threats.
He wasn't only investigating Iris's death—he was hunting something larger, more dangerous, and utterly committed to following clues wherever they led.
"You look official," I said as Rowan approached, raindrops beading on his wool coat.
"State employees respond to visual cues." He gazed at the building's entrance. "Dr. Patricia Hendricks. Twenty-three years with the department, spotless record. Promoted unusually fast right after Riverside's last renewal."
I stared at him. "You researched our bureaucrat?"
"Divorced, two kids in college, mortgage paid off with a big lump sum last spring." Rowan shifted his messenger bag, revealing a manila folder thick with documents. "She drives a 2018 Honda Civic, the same model as half her colleagues. Background research prevents surprises."
He didn't leave anything to chance.
"Hendricks approved Riverside's initial license renewal eighteen months ago," he continued, voice matter-of-fact. "Three weeks after Iris died."
"You think she knew?"
"I think she signed paperwork that kept a dangerous facility operational." It was a flat, clinical observation. "Whether she knew what she was enabling remains to be seen."
A transit bus hissed to a stop nearby, its electric motor humming as passengers disembarked. Office workers hurried past, clutching coffee cups and briefcases, absorbed in Monday routines.
"Strategy?" I asked.
"You take the lead. It's your client, your professional territory." Rowan checked his phone. "I'll provide supporting documentation, stay factual, and avoid speculation."
"What if she shuts us down?"
"Then we know official channels are compromised." His gray-green eyes met mine. "Either through incompetence or design."
The state building loomed above us. Rain slicked the entrance steps, turning them treacherous for anyone foolish enough to approach without careful attention to footing.
"One more thing," Rowan said, pulling out a slim recording device. "Washington's a one-party consent state. Mind if I document this conversation?"
The casual way he produced surveillance equipment made me wonder what else he hid in his messenger bag. "Is that necessary?"
"Bureaucrats have selective memory when it comes to inconvenient promises." He slipped the recorder into his jacket pocket, positioning it for optimal audio capture. "Documentation protects everyone."
We climbed the slippery steps together, my briefcase swinging against my leg. The building's lobby opened before us—polished floors and fluorescent lighting that leached color from everything it touched. Security guards flanked metal detectors.
"Fourth floor," Rowan murmured as we approached the elevators. "Healthcare Facility Licensing. Hendricks's office is wedged between Environmental Health and Facility Standards."
The elevator's lighting buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made us both look tired and suspicious.
"Ready?" Rowan asked as the doors opened onto the fourth floor.
The corridor stretched before us, beige walls lined with motivational posters about public service. The air smelled of copier toner and industrial cleaner.
Hendricks's nameplate gleamed beside a door marked "Healthcare Facility Licensing," brass polished to mirror brightness. Behind that door waited answers, deflection, or confirmation that the systems designed to protect vulnerable people were compromised from the inside.
I knocked twice, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.
"Come in."
Dr. Patricia Hendricks occupied an office that screamed middle management—beige walls decorated with framed certificates aligned like soldiers, and a desk positioned to project authority.
A mug of tomato soup steamed beside her computer, its metallic tang warring with the cloying sweetness of vanilla air freshener.
She matched Rowan's research perfectly: early fifties, graying hair twisted into a regulation bun, shrewd eyes that assessed visitors before they'd finished crossing the threshold.
Something about the office was off, like a movie set designed to suggest competent bureaucracy rather than the real thing.
"Gentlemen, please sit." She gestured toward two chairs. "Dr. McCabe, I understand you have concerns about a former client?"
I settled into the chair. "Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Hendricks.
I'm concerned about potential ethical violations involving a treatment facility called Riverside Mental Health Retreat.
" My voice was measured and professional.
"My client, Iris Delacroix, attended their program eighteen months ago. She died a week after returning."
Hendricks pulled out a legal pad, pen poised. "I'm sorry for your loss. Suicide among trauma survivors is unfortunately common, even with the best therapeutic care."
"This isn't about therapeutic outcomes. It's about how Riverside recruited her." I leaned forward slightly. "Someone contacted Iris using specific details from our confidential therapy sessions. Information that HIPAA should have protected."
Her pen stopped moving. It was only a momentary hitch, but enough to notice. "That's a serious allegation. Do you have documentation of this contact?"
"Witness testimony from her roommate. The caller referenced therapeutic techniques specific to Iris's treatment—details that never appeared in any insurance filings or intake forms."
Hendricks scribbled notes, nodding with practiced sympathy. "And you believe this information came from unauthorized access to your records? Not from the client herself?"
"It's the only explanation. The caller knew intimate details about visualization exercises we'd developed together. Personal details that Iris had specifically asked me not to document. She wouldn't have shared it with outside entities."
"Have you contacted your electronic health records provider about potential security breaches?"
"Not yet. I wanted to report the incident to the proper authorities first."
Rowan shifted beside me, folder rustling. Hendricks glanced at him with polite wariness.
"Mr...?"
"Ashcroft. I'm assisting Dr. McCabe with his research. I've documented similar patterns involving other trauma victims and treatment facilities."
He said "victims." The word snagged at me. In my office, I never used it—people survived trauma; that mattered. I opened my mouth to correct him, then shut it again. Not the time. Not yet.
Hendricks asked, "What kind of patterns?"
Rowan opened his folder, extracting a single page with surgical precision. "Recruitment tactics that exploit confidential therapeutic information. Facilities promising accelerated results that traditional therapy can't provide. Patients dying within months of treatment."
Hendricks accepted the document and scanned it quickly. Her expression remained politely interested until her gaze reached something that made her pause. The change was subtle—a tightening around her eyes and fingers gripping the paper tighter.
"You're suggesting Riverside Mental Health Retreat is involved in these... patterns?"
The slight emphasis on suggesting sounded like a warning. Her shoulders squared and her pen clicked rhythmically against the legal pad.
"We're documenting concerning coincidences," I said carefully. "Iris isn't the only client recruited using confidential information."
"Dr. McCabe." Hendricks set down the document, leaning back in her chair.
"Riverside has an impeccable reputation.
They're fully licensed, regularly inspected, and maintain the highest standards of patient care.
Their director, Dr. Celeste Harrow, is nationally recognized for her innovative trauma treatments. "
The finality in her voice hit like a door slamming shut.
"I understand their reputation," I pressed. "I'm not questioning their credentials. I'm reporting potential privacy violations that may have contributed to my client's death."
"Have you filed complaints with the appropriate agencies? The Office of the Inspector General? State medical board?"
"I'm filing them with you first, as the licensing authority."
Hendricks pulled out a pre-printed form, sliding it across the desk. "You'll need to complete a formal complaint. Include all documentation, witness statements, and evidence of regulatory violations. The review process typically takes six to eight weeks."
Rowan leaned forward. "What happens during the review?"
"We investigate all allegations thoroughly. Interview relevant parties, examine records, and determine whether violations occurred." Her tone turned blandly bureaucratic. "If we find evidence of wrongdoing, we take appropriate action."
"And if you don't find evidence?"
"Then we close the file." Hendricks stood, signaling the meeting's end. "Gentlemen, I appreciate you bringing this to our attention. Please submit your formal complaint through proper channels."
My hands closed into fists, and I remembered Rowan's recorder. "I want you to state, for the record, the scope and date of Riverside's most recent audit, and the complaint case number you're opening today."
"On the record, I don't provide inspection dates or scopes in meetings. Submit a written complaint; intake will issue a tracking number. Any survey reports are available through public records. We don't discuss individual facilities outside that process."
"Dr. Hendricks, my client is dead. If Riverside is exploiting confidential information to recruit vulnerable patients—"
"Dr. McCabe." Her voice sharpened with condescending authority.
"I understand you're grieving your client's loss.
Trauma therapists often struggle with feelings of responsibility when patients don't achieve desired outcomes.
Making unsubstantiated allegations against respected facilities doesn't honor their memory. "
She wasn't investigating our concerns; she was diagnosing me as an unreliable narrator, too emotionally invested to see clearly.
"This isn't about grief," I said. "It's about evidence."
"Then document that evidence through proper channels." Hendricks moved toward the door. "We take all complaints seriously, but we also protect facilities from unfounded accusations."
Rowan gathered his papers. "Thank you for your time."
Something in his tone made Hendricks pause, but she recovered quickly, already focused on whatever meeting came next. We'd been processed, categorized, and filed away—another Monday morning speed bump for the efficient machinery of state government.
Twenty-three years of public service, and Hendricks dismissed us with the efficiency of someone stamping routine paperwork. Iris deserved better than bureaucratic condescension disguised as professional concern.
More than that, something about the entire interaction felt wrong. It wasn't merely dismissive; it was protective.
Seattle's drizzle had graduated to proper rain while we'd been inside. My hands shook with suppressed fury.
"Well, that went about as expected," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "Should we organize a march on Olympia next? I'm thinking picket signs, maybe some chanting. 'Hey, hey, ho, ho, medical fraud has got to go.'"
Rowan didn't respond to my joke. He descended the steps with careful precision, messenger bag clutched against his chest. Rain darkened his hair, turning him into something pulled from a noir film—all shadows and controlled danger.
"Miles."
I turned to look back, and my foot hit a particularly slick patch of concrete. Time slowed as the world tilted sideways. I windmilled my arms, briefcase flying, and the steps rushing up to meet me.
Rowan's hand locked around my forearm, fingers digging into muscle through my jacket. His other arm swept across my back, hauling me upright against his chest. For a heartbeat, we stood frozen in an awkward embrace, rain pattering around us.
"Steady," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
My pulse pounded in my throat. This close, I caught the scent of rain-soaked wool and cold metal, as if the city itself clung to him. His grip on my arm remained firm, steadying, even after I'd regained my footing.
"Thanks," I managed.
Rowan's gray-green eyes searched my face, and I wondered what he saw there. Embarrassment? Attraction?
"They're protected," he said quietly, his hand still resting on my arm.
"Protected by whom?"
"Money. Reputation. Political connections." Rowan's fingers loosened but didn't release me entirely. "People who profit from keeping things exactly as they are."
Rain drummed harder, sending pedestrians scurrying for covered transit stops and building overhangs. We stood in the downpour, water streaming down our faces.
"So what now?"
"Now we do this the hard way." Rowan finally released my arm. "No official support, no institutional backing. Everything we find, we find ourselves."
Rowan retrieved my briefcase from where it had skittered across the wet pavement, water dripping from its leather corners.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the street. "Let's get out of this rain."
We walked toward the transit station, shoulders nearly touching, while the city blurred around us in gray and silver. The warmth of Rowan's hand on my arm lingered like a promise—or maybe a warning about how far I was willing to fall.