10. Rowan #2
The moral calculus was staggering. How many individual victims could she have helped if she'd blown her cover early? "She made the utilitarian choice," I said. "Sacrifice the few to save the many."
"And now that choice is collapsing."
We stared at each other, processing the implications. If Meridian had discovered Hendricks's double game, she wasn't only compromised—she was in immediate physical danger.
Miles reached out for my hand. "We have to find her."
"We don't even know where to look. And if we try to contact her directly, we could expose her further."
The thought of another federal ally disappearing—another Lucia lost to institutional power—made my pulse race.
I'd spent three years believing I was fighting this battle alone.
Now I discovered that someone had been fighting it from the inside, accumulating evidence while I fumbled around with podcasts and public records requests.
Were we too late to save her? I started to speak and then froze.
Miles met my gaze. "You want to go after them directly."
"I want to find Patricia Hendricks before they disappear her the way they disappeared Rook. And I want to make sure that eight-year-old boy gets justice for what they did to him."
Miles pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "My brother Michael has federal connections. If they are holding Hendricks for questioning, there might be official channels—"
"No." I turned away from the wall. "The moment federal agents start asking questions about Hendricks's whereabouts, everyone involved will know she was working with outside sources. If they're only suspicious now, official inquiry would confirm their worst fears."
"Then what do you suggest? Wait and hope she surfaces on her own?"
I paced toward the window. "We've been thinking about this wrong," I said. "Treating it like an investigation when it's actually a rescue operation."
"What's the difference?"
"Investigation focuses on gathering evidence to build a case. Rescue focuses on extracting people before they're eliminated." My mind shifted into operational mode. "Hendricks isn't a source anymore—she's a target. Rook isn't a witness—he's a liability they need to eliminate."
"Then we follow Rook," Miles said. "He knows where she is, or at least how to contact her. That's why he bolted from the diner—not because he was discovered, but because she was in immediate danger."
I left the window and moved toward the kitchen area. Miles was already there, pouring two fresh cups of coffee. "What about the evidence we already have?" he asked. "Rook's notebook contains enough financial documentation to trigger federal investigations."
"It's not enough." I thought about the eight-year-old boy who'd trusted adults to help him heal from whatever trauma had brought him to Meridian's attention. "They didn't just steal money, Miles. They stole childhoods, memories, and the ability to trust therapeutic relationships."
Miles sipped and studied my evidence wall. "So we need both. We need Rook's financial documentation and Hendricks's medical evidence."
"We need them alive long enough to testify." I faced him directly. "This isn't about building an investigative case anymore. It's about preventing two more murders."
"Alleged murders," Miles said automatically, then caught himself. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. But Rowan, if we're shifting from investigation to rescue operation, we need to understand what we're planning."
"Which is?"
"Breaking federal laws. Obstruction of justice if legitimate agents are questioning her. Potentially accessory charges if we help federal fugitives evade custody." Miles lowered his voice. "My license, your podcast, our families' safety—all of it becomes collateral damage."
His comments clarified something I'd been avoiding since Lucia's death. Some fights were worth the risk of losing everything.
"Are you trying to talk me out of this?" I asked.
"I'm trying to make sure we both understand the stakes before we cross more lines we can't uncross." Miles reached for my hand, fingers warm from holding his cup. "Once we shift from amateur investigators to active resistance, there's no returning to normal lives. I learned that from my brothers."
I looked down at our joined hands—his pale fingers interlaced with mine. "I haven't had a normal life since I left the Bureau. Maybe it's time to stop pretending I wanted one."
Miles squeezed my hand. "What about me? What happens to the mild-mannered therapist who accidentally got recruited into a federal conspiracy?"
"He gets to choose whether justice for his clients is worth risking his comfortable life."
"Already made that choice. It happened when I decided to meet you instead of filing a routine complaint and forgetting about Iris." Miles offered a crooked smile. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't get yourself killed trying to save people who might already be dead."
I didn't design the kitchen area of my loft with two people in mind. Miles moved around me, opening cabinets I'd forgotten contained actual food, assembling something that resembled dinner from the chaos of my stress-baking supplies.
"When did you last eat something that wasn't flour and sugar?" he asked, cracking eggs into a bowl.
"I order in."
Miles opened my refrigerator to grab the butter and then paused. "Fuck. Your fridge looks like a science experiment."
I glanced over his shoulder at the collection of takeout containers in various states of decay and condiment bottles with expiration dates from previous years.
"I do eat," I said defensively.
"You survive. There's a difference." Miles located a pan and set it on my ancient stovetop. "Scrambled eggs with whatever herbs still smell like something."
I found his domestic efficiency hypnotic. It was almost like he belonged in my kitchen, finding what he needed despite my organizational chaos. The scent of butter heating in the pan mixed with the warehouse's usual electronics-and-brick aroma, creating something unexpectedly comfortable.
"You're enjoying this," I observed.
"Feeding you? Yeah, I am." He whisked the eggs. "Therapist thing, probably. I like caring for people who forget to take care of themselves."
"I don't forget. Different priorities take over."
"Such as?"
I gestured toward my evidence wall, where nine faces stared down at us through the blue glow of my monitors. "Justice. Truth. Making sure the people responsible for destroying lives face consequences."
Miles poured the eggs into the pan, where they began forming golden curds. "And what about making sure the person seeking justice doesn't destroy himself in the process?"
He hit a raw nerve. Self-care felt like betrayal when others had died for institutional failures I'd failed to expose.
"That's not how this works," I said.
"Isn't it?" Miles stirred the eggs with gentle movements, and his voice turned clinical. "Living on coffee and guilt, sleeping three hours a night, building relationships with dead people because the living ones require emotional energy you've allocated elsewhere."
The clinical assessment was accurate enough to sting. "I have relationships."
"With sources and suspects. When's the last time you had dinner with someone without discussing murder or conspiracy?"
I couldn't remember. Federal contacts, podcast listeners, witnesses like Miles—every connection in my life revolved around professional necessity or investigative utility.
"Before the Bureau," I admitted.
Miles plated the eggs. "That's years of isolation disguised as dedication."
"It kept me focused."
"It kept you alone."
The eggs were perfect—creamy texture brightened by herbs—real food prepared by someone who cared whether I consumed nutrients instead of only caffeine and carbohydrates.
"I don't know how," I said quietly.
"How to what?"
"Live. Trust. Let someone close without calculating how they could turn on me." I met his gaze across the table. "I've been thinking tactically for so long that I don't remember how to think emotionally."
Miles reached across the space between us, covering my hand with his palm. "Maybe you don't have to choose. Maybe tactical thinking and emotional connection can coexist."
"Where?"
"Here, for starters."
While we finished our eggs, I detected a bit of shyness under the smile on Miles's face.
After I carried our empty plates to the kitchen, I pulled open a drawer and came up with the tin of cookies I'd baked three days ago.
"Three days stale," I warned.
Miles cracked one in half and handed me a piece. "So are we."
He steered me to the couch, the two of us shoulder to shoulder, chewing quietly. The sweetness cut through the metallic taste of fear. His head leaned against mine.
For a moment, we let ourselves breathe.
Then Miles stood and walked to the window. "Rowan," he said, voice low.
I joined him and followed his pointing finger to the street below. A white van, windows blacked out, sat parked across from the warehouse—two silhouettes in the cab.
The cookie tasted sour on my tongue.
"They're not just watching," I said. "They're waiting."
"For what?"
"For us to make contact with Hendricks or Rook. For us to do something that confirms we're active participants instead of passive observers." I moved away from the window.
Miles joined me in the center of the room. "So what do we do? Wait them out?"
"We assume they have audio surveillance and visual confirmation of our location.
We assume they're tracking our communications and monitoring our digital activity.
" I looked around my warehouse fortress, recognizing how easily it could become a trap.
"We assume they're prepared to move from surveillance to detention if we give them justification. "
"Which means?"
"We can't contact Hendricks or Rook directly. We can't access additional evidence without confirming their suspicions. And we can't leave without potentially leading them to other contacts or safe locations."
It was a devastating analysis. They'd effectively neutralized us without firing a shot.
"They're good," Miles said quietly.
"They're professional. The question is, are they good enough to prevent us from finishing what Hendricks and Rook started?"
"What are you thinking?"
I turned to face him. "We stop playing defense and start playing offense—but first, we get out without them knowing we're gone."