9. Miles #2
It made a twisted kind of sense. Harrow sat at the top of the research hierarchy, respected enough that her concerns would carry weight, but also vulnerable if she moved against her colleagues too openly.
"What truth?" I asked.
Rook exhaled, rough and uneven. "We weren't healing." His hands froze on the notebook. "The treatments didn't erase anything. They made people weaker. Easier to bend. Easier to use." His voice broke in a low register. "We made victims."
"How many people?"
"Hundreds. Maybe more." He flipped to a page covered in small print—names, dates, and facility codes. "Seventeen facilities across six states, all using variations of the protocols I helped develop."
A truck rumbled past outside, its diesel engine rattling the diner's windows. Rook flinched at the sound, turning halfway around to look toward the parking lot.
His phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor transformed—the paranoid researcher replaced by someone who clearly loved the caller.
"Excuse me," he whispered, answering the phone. "Hello?" His voice was suddenly soft and tender. "I know, I know. I'm being careful."
I watched his face as he listened, noting how his free hand relaxed its grip on the notebook, and his shoulders relaxed from their defensive hunch.
"She's waiting," he murmured. He slid the phone back into his pocket. "She's concerned about you meeting with me. The risk is getting higher for anyone who asks questions."
I assumed he meant the risk to Harrow's position and reputation. "How long has she been documenting this?"
"Years—years—she's been meticulous, playing the long game." Rook leaned forward, fingers drumming against the table. "But they're catching on. They've started to trace the outlines, see the links. She's drawing too much heat, looking too close at facilities that should've been invisible."
"And she suggested you contact me?"
"She thought you might be willing to go further than official channels." He traced the edge of the notebook with a trembling finger. "Official channels failed you eighteen months ago because they're compromised."
"What kind of further?" I asked.
Rook opened the notebook to a page full of addresses. "There's evidence. Documentation that can't be buried or dismissed. She's been gathering it but can't act on it without exposing herself."
"So she needs outside help."
He closed the notebook and slid it across to me. "If I don't make it, this does."
His phone buzzed again, and this time the tension returned to his shoulders. He glanced at the screen and frowned.
"What is it?" I asked.
"She's... something's wrong." He was already sliding out of the booth, notebook clutched to his chest. "They're asking her questions at work."
"Wait—" I started, but his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and his face went ashen.
"Emergency meeting. Now." His voice cracked. "They've called her in. They know."
I stared at the notebook as he stood. "I have to go," he gasped, already moving toward the rear exit. "If they've found her—"
"Dr. Rook!" I called after him, but he was already pushing through the back door, leaving me alone at the booth with cold coffee and a notebook full of secrets.
I stared at the notebook sprawled across the booth's cracked vinyl, its pages fanned open. Conversations continued around me as if a federal fugitive hadn't just fled through the back of a Tacoma diner.
My hands shook as I reached for the notebook. Inside, Rook's handwriting filled every available space.
"Fuck," I whispered, knowing Rowan could hear me through the wire.
The first page contained what looked like a patient roster: names, ages, and facility codes.
My throat closed when I recognized the format—it matched the intake forms I'd filled out hundreds of times, boxes checked while someone sat across from me, twisting their hands in their lap.
Clients who trusted me to help them sleep through the night, trust their own memories, and believe they weren't broken.
I flipped through the following pages—drug trials disguised as treatment plans.
Dosages stepped up like stairs to nowhere.
Side effects that read like case notes gone wrong: fragmentation, suggestibility, dissociation.
I could picture the words in my handwriting, except they weren't warnings here. They were goals.
"They were farming trauma," I breathed, knowing Rowan could hear.
I closed the notebook and slid it into my jacket, its weight pressing against my ribs like stolen evidence. The server appeared at my table with the coffee pot. "You doing okay, hon? Your friend left in quite a hurry."
"Family emergency," I said, throwing a twenty on the table. "Keep the change."
I walked toward the front entrance, and the chilled October air hit my face as I stepped outside. Rowan's car idled across the street.
"Get in," he said through the passenger window. "We need to move."
I slid into the seat beside him, notebook clutched in my lap. He pulled into traffic, eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror.
"Miles, tell me everything that happened after Rook bolted."
"He left this behind." I held up the notebook. "Financial records, patient rosters, and pharmaceutical logs. It's all here—the entire conspiracy documented in his handwriting."
"Don't open it in the car. If someone's tracking us, we don't want them to know what we have." Rowan's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Did anyone approach you after he left? Anyone show unusual interest?"
"The diner cleared out pretty fast after the car backfired. Could be a coincidence, could be—"
"No such thing as coincidence in this business." He took another turn, heading toward the Interstate. "What did Rook tell you about his contact?"
I replayed the conversation, focusing on the details that had stuck with me. "He was protecting someone. Their relationship is more than professional. He's in love with the person feeding him information."
"And you think it's Harrow?"
"Has to be. She's positioned perfectly to access the kind of data he described.
She's got the reputation to provide cover for gathering intelligence, and if she's having second thoughts about the research she helped create.
.." I shrugged. "People do desperate things when carrying that kind of guilt. "
Rowan took the ramp onto the Interstate, merging with the traffic flowing north toward Seattle.
"Miles, there's something about Harrow you need to understand." He spoke in a grave, quiet tone. "She's not just another researcher who got in over her head. She's the architect of all this."
"What do you mean?"
"All of the treatment protocols are based on her published research. She didn't stumble into a conspiracy. She designed it."
The notebook felt heavier in my lap. "You're saying she's not trying to expose them? She is them."
"I'm saying we need to be very careful about trusting anything that comes from her direction." Rowan glanced at me. "Including the information in that notebook."
"So what was that meeting really about?" I asked.
"I don't know yet, but we'll find out." Rowan's expression was grim. "We're going to take that notebook apart piece by piece until we understand what game they're really playing."
The Seattle skyline emerged from the industrial haze ahead of us, glass towers catching the afternoon light. Home. Safety. The familiar rhythms of a life I might never know again.