6. Rowan #2
"Nervous? Me?" Miles snickered and shook his head. "Why would I be nervous? Just sitting in a car in the dark, watching an office building where phantom therapists allegedly brainwashed my dead client."
"Miles."
"I mean, this is basically every amateur detective movie ever made, right? Two guys, one car, staking out the bad guys' lair. Except usually there's more action and fewer insurance forms. Maybe we should have brought snacks."
The words tumbled out faster than he could control them, each joke building on the last like a comedian working a hostile crowd.
"You don't have to keep doing that," I said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Using humor to keep me at arm's length." I turned to face him fully, our knees nearly touching in the cramped space. "You don't need to entertain me, Miles."
His laugh died in his throat. For a moment, we sat in silence, broken only by the irregular rhythm of the windshield wipers.
"It's not you I'm keeping at arm's length." He leaned toward the windshield and looked up at the glass and steel tower before us.
"Every time something gets real, you crack a joke. Every time I'm too close, you deflect with some bit about spy movies or snacks."
Miles set his thermos in the cup holder with deliberate care. "Ever get scared, Rowan?"
Understanding thundered in my head. "Fuck… sorry."
"Apology accepted."
I spoke softly. "I do the same thing, except with work instead of humor. When I feel that chill up my spine, I bury myself in case files and evidence boards."
"Why are you telling me this?" Miles asked.
"Because we're about to walk into something dangerous, and I need to know you're here with me. Not hiding behind jokes or pretending this is some adventure we can laugh off later. I need my partner present."
Partner. I surprised myself by saying it out loud.
"I'm scared," Miles said quietly.
"Of what?"
"Of finding out what really happened to Iris. Of learning that I could have prevented it if I'd asked the right questions eighteen months ago." His breath fogged the passenger window. "Of discovering that every client I've lost was my fault somehow."
The vulnerability in his voice cut through every one of my defenses. It wasn't only his words—it was how he looked saying them, how his guard dropped, leaving him unprotected and real.
His mouth was so close to mine. It made me wonder about the taste of his lips.
"I'm scared too," I said.
Miles echoed my question. "Of what?"
"Of losing another partner to this investigation. Of being wrong about everything and dragging you down with me." I met his gaze. "Of caring more about solving these cases than protecting the people trying to help me solve them."
Rain intensified against the windshield, turning the building's lights into abstract smears of yellow and white.
"We're both pretty fucked up," Miles said, and for the first time all evening, his smile was genuine.
"Yeah. We are."
Movement in the building's lobby caught my attention. Security guards making their rounds, flashlights sweeping across empty corridors. Then, twenty minutes later, a cleaning crew arrived—three people with key cards and industrial vacuum cleaners.
I scratched out a note with my pen. "Late shift. Building's not as empty as it looks."
"Think they're connected to Meridian?"
"Standard cleaning service, probably, but..." I studied the extensive camera array mounted above the building's entrance. "Look at that security setup. Motion sensors, infrared cameras, and card readers on every door. That's expensive surveillance for a bunch of accountants."
"Maybe they're serious about protecting their spreadsheets."
The forced levity was gone. Miles studied the cameras, too, calculating sight lines and coverage areas.
More lights flickered on in the building's upper floors.
"Fourth floor," Miles said. "Something's happening up there."
I reached for my phone, then stopped. If Meridian were sophisticated enough to monitor therapists' sessions, they'd certainly be watching for electronic surveillance near their headquarters.
"We should go," I said.
"Now? But if someone's actually—"
"We don't know what we're walking into, and we're sitting ducks out here. Besides, I have a better idea."
Miles slowly unbuckled his seatbelt, still watching the building. "What kind of better idea?"
"The kind that involves walking through their front door tomorrow during business hours. If Riverside operates out of that office, someone there knows what happened to Iris."
"And you think they'll just tell us?"
"I think they'll try to recruit you." I glanced at him. "You're the kind of target they're looking for—trauma therapist with access to vulnerable clients, carrying enough guilt to be an easy target for manipulation."
Miles was quiet as he climbed out of the car. Just before closing the door, he leaned back in. "For what it's worth, I'm glad I'm not the only one who knows about Iris."
I took a circuitous route back to Georgetown, watching my mirrors.
My apartment welcomed me with the comforting hum of electronics and the faint lemon-scented residue of the morning's stress-baking session. The evidence wall glowed under track lighting, nine faces staring down at me.
Miles's words echoed in the warehouse's brick acoustics: I'm glad I'm not the only one who knows about Iris.
My laptop sat where I'd left it, and Meridian's corporate records were still open on the screen. The building we'd surveilled looked innocuous in the digital photographs—another anonymous tower in a city full of them.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the photos I'd taken: building entrance, camera positions, and license plates from the cleaning crew's van. Everything looked routine, but that was what I'd expect from a sophisticated operation.
My electric tea kettle whistled from the kitchen space. Earl Grey tonight. The bergamot's citrus bite would help me think.
While the tea steeped, I added new details to Iris's section of the evidence wall. Questions annotated in red ink: Where do they take patients? How many facilities are in the network? What's the methodology?
My phone buzzed.
Miles: Made it home safe. Thanks for tonight
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What was the appropriate response to a partner who'd just watched you confess your deepest professional failure? Who'd let you see past his own carefully constructed defenses?
Rowan: Sleep well. Tomorrow gets complicated
Miles: More complicated than fake therapy facilities and phantom treatment programs?
Rowan: Much more
Miles: Looking forward to it
Miles McCabe wasn't just a source anymore. He was an investigative partner. Maybe something more.
Rain continued its assault on the warehouse windows, each impact reminding me that Seattle kept its secrets buried deep. But this one—this network of phantom facilities and manufactured trust—was about to surface, whether it wanted to or not.
I moved to the filing cabinet, pulling out Lucia's folder.
Her photograph stared back at me, dark eyes bright with the intelligence that made her a formidable investigator.
She'd died believing she was close to exposing Healing Horizons.
Now Miles and I stood on the threshold of something potentially even larger.
"We're going to finish what you started," I whispered to her image.
The warehouse settled around me, brick and steel. For the first time since I'd pinned Lucia's photo to my evidence wall, the space didn't feel like a mausoleum.
It felt like a war room.
And tomorrow, we'd find out whether we were the hunters or the prey.