7. Miles
Chapter seven
Miles
T he phone's buzz woke me with a start. I fumbled for it in the dark, my fingers clumsy with sleep, expecting to see a client's name or the crisis hotline number.
Instead, Michael's contact photo glared back at me—that serious SWAT headshot, intimidation forward.
Six-fourteen AM. Shit.
"Hello?" My voice sounded like sandpaper.
"Alex told me." No preamble, no good morning. It was the McCabe blend of fury and protective terror I'd heard since childhood. "Said you're investigating surveillance and dead clients. What the hell, Miles?"
I sat up too fast, the room swaying. The metallic taste of morning coated my tongue. "Good morning to you, too, sunshine. How's Oregon? The ocean still wet?"
"Cut the shit." His words snapped through the phone. "Some random creep knew about a dead patient. Knew things they shouldn't. And your plan was to play cowboy?"
My bare feet hit the cold hardwood. Michael's voice lodged under my skin. "I didn't, I went to the authorities, and it's not that simple—"
"It's exactly that simple. Someone's been spying on you and your patients, and you want to investigate it alone like some kind of—" He stopped himself, but I heard the word he didn't say. Idiot.
"Like some kind of what, Michael?"
"Like someone who doesn't understand how dangerous this could be." His voice dropped into that tactical register he used when coordinating with hostage negotiators. "Give me details. The caller—male or female? How'd they get your number? What did they know?"
I walked to my kitchen window, pressing my forehead against the glass. Seattle's pre-dawn streets stretched empty below. A garbage truck rumbled past, hydraulics wheezing.
"I can handle this."
"Like hell you can." I heard the sound of a collar jingling in the background. "Miles, listen to me. If someone's monitoring your therapy sessions, they've committed federal crimes. These people are serious. They're not playing games."
The window reflection showed me what I didn't want to see—disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes.
"I only asked Alex about a hypothetical. I don't want the family involved."
"You don't get to choose that. We were involved the moment someone targeted you." Papers rustled on his end. "I've got contacts. I can make some calls."
"No. Michael, no. I appreciate the offer, but I'm not turning this into a federal case before I understand what I'm dealing with."
"What you're dealing with is someone who's been watching you and listening to confidential conversations. How is this not a federal case?"
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance—emergency responders heading toward someone else's crisis.
"Because maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Iris's death was what it looked like, and I'm creating conspiracies out of guilt and coincidence." The admission tasted bitter. "Maybe I'm the unreliable narrator in this story."
Michael was quiet. When he spoke again, his voice had softened enough to be recognizable as my brother instead of tactical officer McCabe.
"Miles. You're the most ethical therapist I know. You don't chase shadows. If you think something's wrong, something's wrong."
On almost any other occasion, the validation would have been comforting. Instead, I wanted my assessment to be off-base.
"Stay put," Michael continued. "Alex and I will drive up today. Should be there by—"
"No." I turned away from the window. "I mean it, Michael. Don't come here. Don't call your federal contacts. Don't turn this into a McCabe family crisis."
"Then what's your plan? Alex said you're meeting with some podcast guy who thinks there's a whole network of—"
"His name is Rowan Ashcroft, and he knows more about this than anyone else I've found."
"A podcaster."
"He used to be FBI."
Michael stopped. He respected credentials.
"You trust him?"
I thought about Rowan's evidence wall and how he carefully arranged each photo, carrying pain for people he'd never met. I thought about his grandfather's fountain pen and how his hands moved when he was thinking.
"I trust his motives."
"That's not the same as trusting him."
"It's what I've got."
Michael exhaled. "Don't do anything stupid, Miles. Promise me. If this turns dangerous—if you feel threatened in any way—you call me immediately."
"Promise."
"I mean it. Miles, these people killed your client. What do you think they'll do to you?"
The line went dead, leaving me standing in my kitchen with the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the empty static of a severed connection.
Outside, Seattle was waking up. Dog-walkers tugged at leashes and buses rumbled through wet intersections.
For half a second, I was ten again, standing at Pike Place with Dad's hand heavy on my shoulder, watching fish arc through the air while vendors shouted over the crowd. The city hadn't changed much. I had.
I set the phone on the counter. In a few hours, I'd sit across from Rowan again, pretending our partnership was still purely professional.
As I climbed into the shower, the spray scalded my shoulders, steam fogging the bathroom mirror until my reflection disappeared entirely. I cranked the temperature higher, chasing the sting of Michael's words.
These people killed your client .
I wanted the heat to burn it out and wash away the protective fury that made me feel twelve again.
My brothers meant well. The McCabe family response to crisis was to circle the wagons and fix everything through sheer stubborn love.
I told myself I wasn't twelve anymore. I didn't need my older brothers to fight my battles.
I twisted the tap off. Water dripped from the showerhead in an irregular rhythm, echoing off the tile like a broken clock.
I tied a towel around my waist and padded to the bedroom, where I stood before the open closet. My fingers lingered on the coral button-down, the one that Matthew had once mentioned contrasted nicely with my eyes. I pulled it off the hanger, then stopped.
Was I dressing for Rowan?
I stared at the shirt in my hands, recognizing the vanity for what it was. I hung the shirt back up and grabbed a gray one instead. Then I second-guessed myself and reached for the coral again. Then back to gray.
Fuck. I was twenty-eight years old, wearing only underwear and having an existential crisis over shirt colors.
The coral shirt won. I told myself it was because it was cleaner, not because of how Rowan looked at me when I placed my hand over his.
My phone buzzed again. This time, a text message.
Rowan: Still meeting at 10? Found something you need to see
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The cursor blinked expectantly, waiting for a response.
Was he talking about the investigation?
Miles: See you soon
After checking my client schedule, I sank into two hours of an old movie. When I left my apartment, Seattle was fully awake. I gripped my hybrid's steering wheel tighter than necessary, the engine humming beneath a symphony of honking horns.
An NPR report crackled through my radio speakers. The host's measured voice discussed healthcare fraud investigations in three different states.
"—federal prosecutors allege that the wellness network used sophisticated surveillance techniques to target vulnerable patients, exploiting confidential medical information to—"
I turned the radio off and glanced at my phone seated in a cup holder. One call, and I could have federal resources, protective custody, and an entire apparatus of law enforcement expertise.
Instead, I was driving toward a converted warehouse to see a man whose voice was the soundtrack to my insomnia.
Rowan's building materialized ahead, brick and steel catching the overcast morning in shades of gray and amber. In daylight, it looked less like a fortress and more like what it was—a converted warehouse where artists, tech workers, and damaged federal agents moved in to reinvent themselves.
I climbed out of the car, shoulders stiff from carrying too many secrets. As I stepped out of the elevator, Rowan's hallway stretched ahead.
I approached 3F, raising my hand to knock.
The door opened before my knuckles touched wood.
Rowan stood in the doorway, taking in my appearance with his analyst's attention to detail. His hair was damp from a recent shower, dark strands falling across his forehead. He wore jeans and a black Henley that clung to his torso, highlighting a muscular chest.
"You look like someone who's had a morning," he said, stepping aside to let me in.
My face must have been an open book—the phone call with Michael and the radio report—an expression built on stress.
"My brother called," I said, following him into the warehouse. "Michael. The SWAT officer I mentioned."
"Ah." Rowan moved toward his desk, where fresh documents were spread across the surface. "Family circling the wagons?"
"Something like that." I watched Rowan move. "He wants to bring in federal contacts and turn this into an official investigation."
Rowan froze. "And?"
"And I told him no. I told him I trusted you."
"Miles." His voice was softer. "There's something we need to discuss."
New documents covered the work table like fallen leaves—printouts and photographs, financial records, and what looked like building schematics. More red string stretched between pushpins.
"What did you find?" I asked.
Rowan's fingers drummed against the surface with restless energy. "Meridian Wellness Group owns seventeen facilities across six states. They all follow the same pattern—shell companies, P.O. box addresses, no actual treatment locations."
I picked up one of the documents. "So where do they take people?"
"That's the problem." Rowan moved away from the table, putting distance between himself and the evidence. "We don't know. And if we push too hard to find out..."
His voice trailed off.
"You want to slow down." It wasn't a question. Yesterday, Rowan had been pushing forward with single-minded determination. Today, I suspected he realized we stood at the edge of a cliff.