10. Rowan
Chapter ten
Rowan
M y warehouse swallowed our footsteps as we climbed the stairs.
Miles trailed behind me with Rook's notebook clutched against his ribs.
My key card beeped against the reader. The familiar electronic chirp usually announced sanctuary.
Today, I experienced it more like sealing ourselves inside a tomb.
"Wire's digging into my chest," Miles said, tugging at his shirt collar.
"Leave it for now." I approached my desk, already reaching for the digital camera. "We document everything before we touch it."
Miles dropped into the chair beside my workstation. His hair had gotten mussed during the drive—wind from the cracked window we'd kept open to stay alert,
"You're doing that thing again," he said.
"What thing?"
"Federal agent thing. All business, no processing." Miles finally set the notebook on the table between us. "I just met a dead man who fled through a diner's back exit. Maybe you could acknowledge that for half a second?"
I picked up my fountain pen, clicking it twice against my palm. Miles was right. The adrenaline from Tacoma still buzzed through my veins like a megadose of caffeine.
"He was terrified," I said. "Whoever this contact is, Rook would die to protect them."
Miles leaned forward, watching me photograph each page. "What's the systematic approach here? Start with recent entries or work backward?"
"Financial data first. Numbers don't lie, even when people do." I flipped to a page dense with bank routing codes and dollar amounts. "Look at this—transfers from Meridian Wellness Group, routed through three shell companies before landing in accounts registered to Enhanced Therapy Solutions."
Miles squinted at the figures. "Those amounts... Damn, Rowan. Two million dollars. For what?"
"Patient recruitment incentives, facility rental, and pharmaceutical procurement." I traced my finger down Rook's notations. "And look at this—quarterly consultation fees paid to Dr. C. Harrow, for the past three years."
"Consultation fees?"
"Blood money."
Miles yanked his laptop from the bag, keys rattling under his fingers. "Let's see if these numbers line up with insurance fraud. Bill the companies for clean therapy on paper, and behind the curtain—experimental torture."
His screen populated with data. "Fuck me," Miles breathed. "This isn't just matching your research; it's expanding it exponentially."
"They're not hiding anymore," I said. "They're scaling up."
Miles leaned back in his chair. "We need to call the FBI. Tonight. This is federal conspiracy, wire fraud, medical fraud—"
"With what evidence?" I gestured toward the notebook. "A dead man's handwritten diary? Financial records with no chain of custody? Miles, this proves what we already knew, but it won't convict anyone in federal court."
"Then what's the point of—"
His phone buzzed against the table.
"Blocked number again."
I reached for his wrist before he could answer. "Don't."
"It could be Rook. Maybe his contact—"
"Or it could be them, testing whether you're home and alone." I stared into his eyes. "Let it go to voicemail."
The buzzing stopped. Miles's phone screen dimmed.
"You're right," Miles said quietly. "We can't trust anyone now."
I flipped through evidence that redefined everything we thought we knew about the scope of what we were fighting. It was systematic human experimentation, dressed up as cutting-edge treatment and funded by insurance companies that had no idea their claims were subsidizing abuse.
The next page made me pause. Between Rook's drug notations and patient rosters, cramped handwriting filled the margins—different ink, hurried script that looked like somebody added it in stolen moments.
"Miles." I angled the notebook so he could see. "Look at this."
The margin notes weren't data. They were fragments of conversation, coded but clearly personal.
T—they're watching the Gardner case. Be careful with your inquiries. —P
Miles leaned closer. "Did two people pass this notebook back and forth? P?"
I flipped through more pages, finding similar notations scattered throughout like secret messages passed in high school—each one warning or comforting or providing information.
It's worse. Not erasing—rewiring. Stay safe. —P
Someone's cleaning house. I love you. —P
"These aren't research notes," Miles said quietly. "These are love letters."
I opened my laptop and ran a few quick cipher checks, more out of habit than hope.
"Wait." Miles pointed at the notebook. "Look at the sentence structure. This is how people communicate when they're under surveillance. Essential information first, personal connection second."
"You can read psychological patterns in handwriting?"
"I can read stress patterns in communication. These people are terrified but trying to maintain an emotional connection." Miles looked up from the notebook. "They're partners. Personal partners."
I started cross-referencing names from Rook's entries with state employee databases, looking for anyone with access to the kind of information these messages contained. P had institutional access.
"P could be anyone," I muttered.
"No." Miles read another margin note, frowning. He showed me what he found.
The Seattle therapist who called about Delacroix—they're tracking his inquiries. Flag him as potential ally. —P
He stared at me. "Who would have that kind of access?"
"I—" I pulled up the Washington State Department of Health employee directory, fingers flying across the keyboard until I found what I was looking for.
"Dr. Patricia Hendricks, Healthcare Facility Licensing."
Miles stared at the screen showing Hendricks's official photo—the woman who'd dismissed us with bureaucratic condescension three days ago. The same woman who'd protected Riverside's reputation while claiming to investigate our concerns.
"She's been playing both sides," Miles said slowly.
I pulled up more margin notes, reading them in the new context.
Your therapist contact called the state office again. I had to deflect. —P
The facility inspection reports are all fabricated. I have the real documentation hidden. —P
18 months since Delacroix suicide. Therapist is still asking questions. We might need his help. —P
My mind reeled as I leaned back in my chair. "She wasn't dismissing us to protect Riverside. She was dismissing us to protect herself."
"And to protect Rook."
"We misread her," I said.
Miles pulled up our recording from the state office meeting. "Remember how she kept checking her computer while we talked? And how she had that formal complaint ready before we'd even finished explaining?"
I remembered. The pre-printed form, the practiced deflection, and how she'd guided us toward official channels that she knew would lead nowhere.
My thoughts tumbled out of my mouth. "She was protecting the investigation. It would have blown her cover if she'd appeared too interested in our allegations."
"And gotten Rook killed." Miles found another margin note that made his breath catch.
They're watching my access. I'll have to move faster. If this is the end, remember—I love you —P
Another understanding dawned on me. "They must have passed this notebook back and forth, maybe leaving it at a secure location each time."
Miles closed the notebook, his expression bleak. "And they're onto her. That emergency call Rook got—it wasn't about being discovered; it was about Hendricks getting called in for questioning."
I flipped to a page near the back of Rook's notebook, where his handwriting deteriorated into barely legible scratches. The pen pressed deep enough to leave indentations on the pages beneath.
Medical trial subjects—post-treatment complications
One entry stopped me cold.
David—age 8—her nephew—Meridian trial subject 2019—severe dissociative episodes, selective memory loss, behavioral regression. P. devastated. Transferred to residential care facility outside state jurisdiction.
"Miles—look at this."
He leaned over my shoulder, reading the entry. "Eight years old," he whispered. "They experimented on an eight-year-old."
I grabbed my laptop, pulling up Hendricks's employment history. "The timeline," I said, pointing at the screen. "Hendricks got promoted right after her nephew became a test subject."
The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. Hendricks's rapid promotion hadn't been a reward for competence. It had been strategic positioning.
"They bought her silence with a promotion," I said. "Then used her guilt to keep her compliant."
"No." Miles studied the dates more carefully.
He found more entries that painted a different picture. The promotion hadn't silenced Hendricks; it empowered her. It gave her access to everything she needed to build a case against the people who'd destroyed her nephew.
When we stared at her across her desk, I interpreted her wrong. I'd spent much of my career convincing myself that institutional power protected these people, and bureaucrats like Hendricks were either incompetent or complicit.
I'd never considered that she might be trapped.
"I called her a bureaucrat," I said quietly. "Dismissed her as another government drone protecting the system."
"You couldn't have known."
"I should have known. I'm supposed to be good at this—uncovering motives behind facades." I stood, pacing to a window where Seattle's downtown core glittered through the rain. "I spent seven years at the Bureau learning to recognize the difference between coercion and corruption."
Miles joined me at the window, his reflection merging with mine in the rain-streaked glass. "Maybe that's exactly why you missed it. You were looking for federal corruption patterns, not family trauma responses."
"She's spent three years carrying guilt while pretending to be complicit."
"Every time someone like us showed up asking questions, she had to choose between helping them and maintaining her cover," Miles said. "How many people do you think she's had to turn away?"