8. Rowan
Chapter eight
Rowan
M y hands still wrapped around Miles's waist, pulling him up tight against me. The warehouse hummed around us—monitors casting blue shadows, and the evidence wall looming with its gallery of faces.
I stepped back. Distance. I needed distance to think.
"We should get lunch." The words came out twice as steady as I felt.
Miles gazed at me. "Running away already?"
"Strategic repositioning." I reached for my jacket, draped over the desk chair. "I need to think, and I can't do that when you're—"
"When I'm what?"
When you're close enough that I can smell the spearmint gum on your breath and hear that unconscious humming sound you make when you're thinking.
"Distracting me."
Miles laughed. "Fair enough. You know any decent places around here?"
We walked north on Corson Ave, Georgetown's industrial bones visible beneath its growing skin of galleries and studios. Freight yards stretched to our right, shipping containers stacked like building blocks against the metallic sky.
Along the way, Miles pointed out a mural that transformed the side of a machine shop. His voice cut through the noise crowding my thoughts.
A Boeing transport rumbled overhead, casting shadows across the cracked pavement. Miles tilted his head back to watch it pass, throat exposed, utterly unconscious of how the gesture stole the air from my lungs.
This was the problem with wanting someone—you noticed every distracting detail. How a gentle breeze ruffled his hair or his mouth moved when he spoke, like he was tasting each word before releasing it.
"You picked an interesting neighborhood," Miles continued as we turned onto 12th Ave S. "Most people leaving federal service head for suburbs and safety. Houses with lawns, maybe a dog."
"Most people don't spend their nights investigating murder conspiracies."
"Point taken." Miles navigated around a cluster of brewery patrons spilling onto the sidewalk. "Though you could probably afford better than a converted warehouse on whatever savings you had."
"The Bureau doesn't offer pensions to agents who quit before ten years." It was more detail than I intended to share. "Everything I have came from selling my D.C. life and gambling it on podcast revenue."
Miles stopped walking. "You gave up your pension?"
"I gave up everything."
"For what?"
For Aiyana. For Lucia. For the possibility that some truths are worth more than financial security.
"For the chance to speak without asking permission first."
We resumed walking, passing Biagio's hand-painted window sign. The converted auto shop was industrial bones warmed by decoration, fairy lights where hydraulic lifts once stood.
"How about here?" Miles asked.
I automatically scanned the details: front door, emergency exit visible through the windows, clear sightlines to the street.
The hostess kept glancing toward the kitchen—nervous habit or checking with someone?
The businessman at table six had positioned himself to watch the entrance, and his newspaper hadn't turned a page since we entered.
Miles watched my face. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Threat assessment over linguine. We're having lunch, not infiltrating a hostile facility."
"Same principles apply." I pulled the door open for him. "Situational awareness keeps people alive."
"And paranoia stops them from living."
Miles pushed open the door, releasing garlic-scented air and the murmur of conversations in multiple languages. The hostess looked up from a reservation book held together with duct tape.
"Two?" she asked, already reaching for menus.
"Somewhere quiet if you have it," Miles said.
She led us past couples sharing wine and families debating antipasti selections, toward a table against the back wall. Perfect positioning—clear view of all entrances and emergency exit within ten steps.
"This work?" she asked.
Miles cut me off. "Perfect."
She handed us menus and disappeared. Miles settled into his chair and opened his menu.
I stood for a moment longer.
"The kitchen staff isn't planning an ambush," Miles said quietly. He reached out and touched my wrist.
The sensation anchored me, pulling me back into the present moment.
"Sorry. It's hard to turn off."
"I know." Miles withdrew his hand. "I'm used to it from my brothers, but maybe you could try? Just for today?"
I sat down. "I can try."
Our server appeared and set down a basket of breadsticks that smelled like rosemary and sea salt.
"Something to drink?" she asked.
Miles pointed at the wine list. "The Chianti Classico—food-friendly?"
"Pairs beautifully with our sauces, cuts through the richness."
"Make it a bottle. We're walking." Miles glanced at me. "Unless you prefer something else?"
When had anyone last cared about my preferences? "Chianti's fine."
After our server disappeared, Miles broke a breadstick in two, offering half across the table. It tasted of herbs and butter.
The server returned with wine, going through the ritual of pour-and-taste. Miles nodded approval, and she filled both glasses with liquid the color of garnets.
Miles lifted his glass. "To tactical miscalculations."
"Such as?"
"Dinner dates with podcast hosts. Kissing former agents in converted warehouses." His eyes met mine over the rim. "Whatever this is that we're pretending isn't happening."
The wine tasted like dark fruit. It warmed my throat, slightly loosening the tension between my shoulder blades.
"Something wrong with agents and hosts?"
Miles grinned. "I've always had questionable taste in men."
Our appetizer platter arrived—antipasti scattered across scarred wood. Miles efficiently assembled bites.
"That questionable taste must come with stories."
Miles speared an olive. "Nothing as interesting as federal conspiracy investigations. What about your history? Dating life can't be straightforward when your idea of small talk involves unsolved murders and government cover-ups."
"Busted. Surely, you noticed my conspicuous lack of dinner companions."
Miles laughed. "Don't ask my brothers how long it's been since I brought someone to the weekly family dinner."
"That surprises me."
Miles ignored the comment and launched into a description of charming domesticity. "Last Sunday, we got into this massive argument about healthcare infrastructure." He reached for a breadstick. "Matthew started getting worked up—you know how paramedics get when you question their protocols."
Miles straightened in his chair, breadstick held like a professor's pointer.
"'Ladies and gentlemen,'" he began, voice taking on a slightly nasal, authoritative tone. "We must address the systemic inefficiencies in our current medical response paradigm. The data clearly indicates suboptimal resource allocation during peak demand scenarios."
I choked on my wine.
Miles maintained the character, waving the breadstick for emphasis.
"'Furthermore, we need comprehensive analysis of workflow optimization protocols—' and here's where he always does this thing with his free hand, like he's conducting an orchestra, 'with particular attention to ergonomic considerations and personnel fatigue mitigation strategies. '"
"What was he actually trying to say?"
Miles grinned. "That the hospitals are understaffed and the new scheduling system sucks."
I laughed again. "He really talks like that?"
"Gets worse when he's passionate about something. Last month, he spent twenty minutes explaining proper spinal alignment during family dinner because Ma's dining chairs were 'ergonomically suboptimal for extended postural maintenance.'"
The image of grown men discussing chair ergonomics while their mother served dinner struck me as both absurd and deeply enviable. I admired a family that stayed connected. Mine had long since scattered hundreds of miles apart from each other.
Miles's smile faltered slightly. "Matthew means well, but sometimes I wonder if his need to fix everyone's medical problems is because nobody could fix Dad's. The smoke inhalation was too severe." He shook his head. "Family dinner gets complicated when everyone's carrying professional guilt."
Our entrees arrived—homemade pasta, mine with a red sauce, and Miles with white.
"When did you last see your family?" Miles asked.
"Christmas. Phone call."
"That's it?"
"Two brothers—one in New York and the other in Costa Rica. My parents retired to Naples, Florida. They all think I'm wasting my education on conspiracy theories instead of respectable employment." I twirled the pasta on my fork. "They're not wrong."
Miles set down his fork. "You gave up everything to share stories about people unfairly facing the impact of crime."
"Because I haven't actually exposed anyone yet. I'm still sitting in warehouses talking to strangers about patterns that might not exist."
Miles flinched.
"Strangers?"
Fuck. "Miles, I didn't mean—"
"It's fine. Good to know where I stand in your risk assessment."
I reached across the table, touching his forearm. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
He looked up. "Did it?"
"Yes. I'm not good at this. Being with people who aren't sources or suspects. You scare me."
"I scare you?"
"You make me want things I've convinced myself I don't need. Family dinners, inside jokes, and someone who cares whether I eat actual food."
Miles was quiet. "Tell me about before," he said finally. "What made you want to hunt patterns in the first place?"
"My grandfather. Joseph Ashcroft. Thirty years with the Bureau, worked organized crime in Chicago.
" I remembered his calloused hands guiding mine across newspaper clippings.
"When I was eight, he'd show me crime reports buried on page six.
Missing persons, unexplained accidents, and suicides that didn't add up. "
"And you saw patterns."
"I saw questions nobody was asking. Grandpa Joe would say, 'The story they print is never the whole story, kid. Your job is to find the parts they left out.'"