8. Rowan #2
Miles leaned forward. "So you joined the Bureau to follow in his footsteps."
"I joined because I wanted to be the person who asked the questions nobody else was asking. Took me seven years to learn that asking the right questions doesn't matter if nobody wants to hear the answers."
The server approached with coffee service. Miles accepted—public acknowledgment that whatever was happening between us had moved beyond professional collaboration.
"What about you?" I asked. "What made you choose trauma therapy?"
"My father died when I was twelve. House fire—he went back for someone who didn't make it out."
Understanding clicked. "You became a therapist to process your own trauma."
"I became a therapist because I understood survivor's guilt. Also, I saw how my family dealt with loss. My brothers threw themselves into dangerous careers—fire, SWAT, and emergency medicine. They chose to run toward other people's crises instead of processing their own."
"And you chose to help people process theirs."
"I chose to help people find ways to live with the weight instead of being crushed by it. Different approach, same impulse to fix what's broken."
The parallels between us were obvious—two men who'd turned the trauma others experienced into professional missions, carrying other people's pain because we'd never learned to put down our own.
"Heavy conversation for lunch," I observed.
"Better than small talk." Miles wove his fingers together with mine. "For the rest of the afternoon, can we not be investigators? Can we be two people who had lunch and want to spend more time together?"
The server returned with a single plate—perfectly constructed tiramisu, layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers, and mascarpone dusted with cocoa. She set it between us with two spoons and a conspiratorial smile.
"Compliments of the kitchen," she said.
Miles accepted the spoons without releasing my hand. "Thank you."
She disappeared back toward the kitchen.
"So we're a couple now?" I asked.
"What would you call this?" Miles lifted his spoon, cutting into the dessert. The first bite made him close his eyes, a soft sound of appreciation escaping between his lips.
"I don't know what to call it," I admitted.
"That bothers you. Not being able to categorize something."
"Everything else in my life has clear parameters. Sources, suspects, allies, threats. You don't fit into any of those categories."
"Maybe I don't have to."
The restaurant hummed around us—conversations in multiple languages, the distant clatter of kitchen equipment, couples sharing wine and ordinary Friday evening intimacy. Normal sounds that felt foreign against the backdrop of my usual isolation.
Miles ran his thumb over my knuckles where our hands rested beside the dessert plate. "You're analyzing this. You don't have to solve this like a case, Rowan."
"Solve what?"
"Whatever's happening between us. You don't have to analyze it until it makes sense or fits into your existing framework. Sometimes things are what they are."
I reached for my cup of coffee, and my fingers trembled.
"You're scared," Miles observed.
"I'm always scared. It keeps me alive."
"No, this is different. You're scared of wanting this."
The accuracy of his assessment stole my breath, but it shouldn't have been a surprise. Miles had advanced training in reading subtext.
"I haven't done this in a long time," I whispered.
"Done what?"
"Sat across from someone and wanted them to stay." It was tactical suicide, revealing a weakness to someone who could exploit it.
"How long?"
I thought about empty apartments, takeout containers, and the thousands of conversations that never moved beyond professional necessity. "Since before the Bureau. Since before I learned that caring about people makes you vulnerable to manipulation."
Miles was quiet momentarily, thumb still tracing patterns against my knuckles.
"Maybe another thing to try today—wanting this, without calculating exit strategies."
He was describing stepping off a cliff. It would require being just Rowan—not the federal agent, podcaster, or man with the evidence wall. I had to reveal the person underneath all those defensive layers.
"I don't know how to do that anymore."
"Neither do I, but maybe we could figure it out together."
I lifted our joined hands, pressing my lips briefly to his knuckles. "For today."
Miles's phone buzzed against the table between us, the vibration traveling through the wood and into my bones. He glanced at the screen, the relaxed contentment draining from his face.
"Unknown number," his thumb hovered. "Could be a client." I watched his face, reading the decision playing out in real time. "Crisis doesn't respect lunch schedules."
Miles lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?" Pause. "This is Dr. McCabe." His voice was steady enough, but his shoulders stiffened.
Silence, then: "You've called before." All the remaining color leached out of his face.
Another pause. His chair scraped back an inch. "Tomorrow? Tacoma?"
Miles's gaze flicked to the windows.
"I'll wait for the details," he said finally, each word clipped and deliberate. When he ended the call, his thumb pressed the screen with a force that suggested anything but calm.
I was already reaching across the table, taking the device from his fingers. The call log showed a blocked number, with a duration of thirty-seven seconds: no trace and no way to track the source.
Miles whispered, "He said his name was Tobias Rook."
I nearly dropped the phone.
"Rowan?" Miles's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Dr. Tobias Rook.
The name dragged me back to a sterile conference room in the Baltimore field office where Lucia and I had spread evidence across government-issue tables. Financial records, patient files, and pharmaceutical shipping manifests that didn't quite add up.
Healing Horizons employed a research team led by Dr. Tobias Rook, a neuropharmacologist, former university professor, and brilliant mind focused on accelerating trauma therapy through controlled memory manipulation.
His published papers read like science fiction: techniques for isolating traumatic memories, suppressing emotional responses, and rebuilding neural pathways through pharmaceutical enhancement.
Then, his facility started losing patients. Rook had been our best lead, the inside source who said he had the keys to what Healing Horizons was actually doing to their patients. We'd scheduled an interview and planned to bring him in under witness protection if necessary.
The night before our meeting, he disappeared. Vanished from his apartment, his research lab, and his entire life. Colleagues said he'd mentioned concerns about the facility's methodology.
We assumed he was dead.
"Rowan." Miles's voice cut through the memory spiral. "Talk to me. You know that name."
"Miles, you just spoke to a ghost. We have to go." I stood abruptly. "Right now."
"What? Why?" Miles remained seated, confusion replacing the fear that had flickered across his face during the call. "Rowan, you're scaring me."
I threw cash on the table—too much, enough to cover dinner and ensure our server wouldn't remember details if anyone came asking questions.
"Dr. Tobias Rook worked for Healing Horizons," I said, keeping my voice low enough that neighboring tables couldn't overhear. "He was going to testify about what they were doing to patients, and then he disappeared."
Miles's eyes widened. "Disappeared how?"
"Final enough that federal agents assume it means dead." I gestured toward the exit, trying to project calm urgency instead of the panic clawing at my chest. "If he's alive, then him surfacing now means something big is happening."
Understanding dawned across Miles's face. He stood and followed me toward the exit.
The Georgetown evening air hit us as we stepped outside—diesel exhaust and industrial scents. I automatically scanned the street: parked cars, pedestrian traffic, and potential surveillance positions.
"Rowan." Miles reached out to grab my arm. "What aren't you telling me about this Rook guy?"
How much could I reveal without putting him in more danger than he was already facing? How much truth could he handle about federal investigations and disappearing witnesses?
"He was my best lead," I said finally. "The person who could have exposed everything. If he's alive, if he's been hiding all this time, then he knows things that powerful people have killed to protect."
"And now he wants to meet with me."
"Now he wants to meet with you." I resumed walking toward home, pace quick but not quite running. "Which means you're either his lifeline or his target."
Miles fell into step beside me. "How can I tell the difference?"
"We try to figure it out together, but not here. Not in the open where anyone could be watching."
Miles kept pace beside me as we walked quickly back toward my warehouse. "This Rook guy—you said he was going to testify. About what, exactly?"
"Human experimentation disguised as trauma therapy. Memory manipulation through pharmaceutical enhancement. Techniques that could erase traumatic experiences but left patients unable to access positive memories, too."
We passed a cement plant, its concrete towers looming against the sky. Boeing transport trucks rumbled past on the arterial, carrying aircraft components toward assembly facilities hidden behind chain-link and razor wire.
"And you think he's been hiding all this time?"
"I think someone made him disappear because he knew too much. Question is whether he's surfacing now because he's finally safe, or because he's finally been found."
Miles grabbed my arm. "Rowan. Stop. You're spiraling."
"Am I?" I asked.
"You've gone full federal agent. Scanning rooftops, checking your six, treating every parked car like potential surveillance. Less than an hour ago, we shared tiramisu and talked about wanting each other to stay."
The reminder landed hard. Minutes ago, I'd been a man discovering that intimacy didn't have to mean vulnerability, and someone could see past my defensive layers without immediately exploiting what they found. Now, I was calculating threat assessments and escape routes.
"I'm sorry. When I heard his name, everything else just—"
We resumed walking, passing a fabrication shop where welding sparks flickered behind grimy windows.
"Tell me about him," Miles said. "Not the federal agent version—the personal version. What did Tobias Rook mean to you?"
The question forced me to excavate memories I'd buried deeply. "He was supposed to be our smoking gun. Lucia and I spent weeks building rapport, convincing him to trust us. The people he worked for terrified him."
"And he disappeared before he could testify."
"The night before our scheduled interview. Vanished." My warehouse building appeared ahead, brick facade softened by late afternoon shadows. "We assumed they'd killed him to protect their operation."
The elevator carried us toward my floor in silence. "This changes everything, Miles. If Rook's alive..."
"Then maybe we finally have the proof we need to expose them."
"Or maybe we're about to become the next people who disappear in convenient accidents." I swiped my keycard, the locks disengaging with electronic precision. "I need you to understand something. If you meet with him, there's no going back."
"What would you do?" Miles asked. "If it were your choice."
The question forced me to confront what I'd been avoiding since the phone rang. It wasn't just about justice for the nine people on my evidence wall anymore. It was about the man beside me, who trusted me enough to share family stories and breadstick theater.
"I'd probably meet him," I admitted. "He might be the only person alive who can finally give me answers."
"And me? What happens to me in your tactical assessment?"
"You become someone new I have to protect."
"That's not what I want to be."
"I know." I turned to face him.
Miles stepped closer. "I'm already in too deep, aren't I? Both professionally and personally."
"Yeah. Whatever happens tomorrow, I can't pretend you're just a professional contact."
He reached out for my hand again. "So what now?" he asked.
"Now we figure out what Dr. Tobias Rook wants, and decide whether we're brave enough to move forward together."
Miles squeezed my hand gently. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Even if it gets dangerous?"
"Especially if it gets dangerous." He smiled. "Besides, someone has to make sure you eat actual food instead of stress-baking your way through whatever crisis comes next."
For the first time since I left the Bureau, I wasn't facing a crisis alone.