9. Miles
Chapter nine
Miles
T he razor nicked my jaw for the third time, pink water spiraling down the drain. My hands wouldn't cooperate—too much caffeine, too little sleep, and the persistent buzz of knowing I was about to cross another line I couldn't uncross.
The intercom buzz cut through my bathroom ritual. Seven-thirty exactly. Rowan's punctuality should have comforted me, but instead it hammered home that this wasn't a social call. I was about to strap recording equipment to my chest and meet a man the federal government thought was dead.
I opened the door to find Rowan holding a messenger bag and a paper sack that smelled like cinnamon and yeast.
"Stress-baking again?" I asked, stepping aside to let him in.
"Scones. You need to eat something." He glanced around my apartment, conducting his familiar investigative sweep.
"I had coffee."
"Coffee isn't food." He set the bag on my kitchen counter and opened his messenger bag, revealing equipment I recognized from cop shows. I saw wires, transmitters, and what looked like a battery pack small enough to hide under clothing.
This was happening.
Rowan pulled out a device the size of a matchbook. "The transmitter's got a four-hour battery and a two-mile range in clear line-of-sight. I'll be close."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Code word is rosemary . Work it into conversation naturally if you need extraction."
He held up a thin wire with what looked like a button at the end. "This is a contact mic. It goes under your shirt, taped to your sternum. It'll catch your voice through vibration."
"You want me to tape spy gear to my chest?"
"I want you to come home safe." It was a blunt statement—honest concern about me.
I reached for my coffee mug, needing something to do with my hands. "This feels very Mission Impossible meets grief counseling.'"
"Miles, this isn't a joke. Rook contacted you for reasons we don't understand yet. People connected to his research have died. I need you to take this seriously."
"I am taking it seriously. Hence, the nervous babbling and the fact that I cut my face three times trying to shave." I touched the small bandage on my jaw. "Humor is how I process fear, Rowan. Always has been."
"I understand, but I need you fully present."
"Okay." I pulled my shirt over my head, trying to appear nonchalant when I was half-naked with Rowan for the first time. "Show me how this works."
He tried not to be obvious, but I watched his gaze travel across my chest before snapping back to professional focus. A half-smile indicated appreciation.
"We need to center the transmitter just below your collarbone." He held up a strip of medical tape. "May I?"
I nodded.
His fingers were careful and clinical as he positioned the device. The wire traced a path down the center of my chest while he secured it with tape, his knuckles brushing against my bare skin.
"How does that feel?" he asked.
"Like I'm wearing a live grenade." I pulled my shirt back on. "Can you tell?"
Rowan stepped back, studying my appearance with the same intensity he brought to evidence walls. "Perfect. You look exactly like a therapist meeting someone for coffee."
"You mean a therapist meeting a ghost for coffee."
"A therapist who's about to get answers about his client's death. Miles, whatever Rook tells you—whatever you learn about what happened to Iris—you no longer have to shoulder the burden alone."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Rowan zipped his messenger bag and picked up his keys. "Ready?"
I grabbed a scone from the paper bag, tearing off a piece that dissolved into butter and cinnamon on my tongue. My last normal moment before everything changed again.
"Ready."
The drive to Tacoma stretched along I-5 through industrial wasteland—shipping containers stacked like metallic Legos and refineries breathing steam into the overcast sky.
I watched a freight train crawl parallel to the highway. "Tell me about Rook before he disappeared. What was he like?"
"Brilliant and obsessive about his research." Rowan's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "He published papers on memory manipulation that read like science fiction."
"And you think he was experimenting on patients?"
"I think he believed he was helping them.
Rook wasn't evil, Miles. He was a researcher who got recruited by people who were.
" Rowan took the exit toward the port district.
"The last time Lucia and I spoke with him, he was terrified.
Said he'd discovered they didn't design the protocols to heal trauma—they used them as a weapon. "
What did it mean to weaponize someone's healing?
Sal's Diner nestled between a tire shop and a check-cashing place, its flickering neon sign a stubborn splash of color in the gray afternoon. Perfect anonymity.
Rowan pulled into a parking space with clear sightlines to the diner's entrance. "I'll position myself across the street. Radio range is good, and I can be inside in thirty seconds if you need me."
"And if he doesn't show?"
"Then we know someone got to him first." Rowan's lips pressed tight in a grim expression. "Miles, if anything feels wrong—if he seems agitated or mentions being followed—get out. Don't worry about being polite."
I climbed out of the car, the transmitter's wire shifting against my shirt.
Inside, the diner smelled like bacon grease and burnt toast. Cracked vinyl booths with red upholstery lined the windows. The tabletop was faintly tacky, syrup and sugar ground into its seams.
I chose a booth near the back corner—close enough to the kitchen's noise to mask conversation. It gave me a view of both entrances with my back to a solid wall.
A server with bottle-blonde hair and tired eyes approached my table. "What can I get you, hon?"
"Coffee, black. And I'm expecting someone, so maybe hold off on food for a bit."
She poured me a fresh cup, flashing the kind of practiced smile that could make strangers feel like regulars.
I touched my chest briefly, feeling the transmitter's outline beneath my shirt. Somewhere across the street, Rowan was listening to every word. The knowledge was both comforting and unnerving.
"Testing," I murmured into my cup, letting the steam warm my face.
The tape tugged against my chest when I sipped, a ghost of Rowan's touch reminding me he was listening.
I activated my therapist radar, scanning the other patrons. The trucker at the counter kept checking his watch—probably calculating drive time versus mandatory rest periods. A woman in scrubs stirred sugar into her coffee.
The door chimed. A man entered, shoulders hunched—mid-fifties, with thinning hair that hadn't seen a barber in months.
He wore layers—flannel over thermal over cotton. A messenger bag hung across his chest, and he clutched it with both hands as he approached my booth.
It had to be Tobias Rook. The ghost made flesh.
"Dr. McCabe?" His voice barely rose above the clatter of dishes and conversation.
"That's me." I stood, extending my hand. His palm was damp with nervous sweat. "Dr. Rook, I presume."
He slid into the booth across from me, bag still pressed against his chest like a shield. Up close, I saw the toll of years in hiding written in the lines on his face. It was what terror looked like after it had time to settle deep inside.
"You came," he said.
"You said you had information about Iris Delacroix." I kept my voice low, still scanning the other customers.
"I have information about a lot of people. Too much information." His gaze darted toward the windows, then back to me. "Including information about you, Dr. McCabe. About the questions you were asking eighteen months ago."
The blood drained from my face. "What questions?"
Rook's fingers drummed against his messenger bag. "The calls you made to the state health department. Inquiries about Riverside's licensing status." His voice dropped even lower. "She told me you'd been persistent. Professional but persistent."
"She? Who told you?"
Rook leaned over the table, and I smelled something sour on his breath. "Someone who... someone who's been watching what's happening from the inside. She said you'd been asking the right questions, which made you dangerous to them. It also made you valuable to us."
Us. Who?
"Dr. Rook, I need you to be more specific. What exactly was I asking that she flagged?"
He opened the messenger bag with trembling hands, revealing a notebook with ragged, worn corners. The pages were dense with handwriting.
"Your client—Iris Delacroix. When you started investigating what happened to her, your inquiries triggered alerts in their monitoring system.
" He flipped through pages, revealing columns of numbers and dates.
"They track anyone who asks too many questions about their facilities.
But she... she's been tracking the trackers. "
There it was again. "She?"
Rook pulled back. "My contact. Someone inside the system who's been documenting everything. She keeps the kind of records no one ever reads—compliance audits, inspection crosswalks, the paperwork meant to ensure protocols line up on paper."
Who would have access to surveillance data on therapists? Who could track inquiries to state agencies?
It had to be someone high enough in the research hierarchy to see patterns across facilities, someone with the credentials to access confidential information. Dr. Celeste Harrow. She was the only prominent female researcher we'd identified in the network.
She was brilliant, well-positioned, and had access to the information Rook described.
"Dr. Harrow," I said quietly. "She's working with you?"
Rook's eyes widened, but he didn't directly confirm my notion. "She's... trying to survive while documenting what they've been doing. When you started asking questions about Riverside, she thought you might be someone who could help expose the truth."