11. Miles
Chapter eleven
Miles
" S ervice elevator," Rowan murmured, already moving toward a door I'd never noticed. "Freight access to the parking garage."
Our footsteps echoed off concrete walls painted the color of old mustard. Emergency lighting cast everything in sodium yellow, carving his face into angles.
"So, now we're a spy movie on a community college budget?"
Rowan glanced back at me. "Stay close."
The freight elevator lurched downward with mechanical groans.
"How did you know about this exit?" I asked as we descended past the main parking level into what looked like a sub-basement.
"I map every building I live in. All exits, sight lines, and potential choke points. Bureau habit that probably saved my life more than once."
The sub-basement opened into a maze of utility corridors connecting to neighboring buildings. Steam pipes ran overhead, dripping condensation that created slick spots on the concrete floor.
"This way." Rowan led me through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. It opened onto an alley three blocks from his building.
The late autumn air bit through my jacket. The alley reeked of garbage and diesel exhaust, but open space was welcome after the claustrophobic corridors.
A car waited under a broken streetlamp, invisible from the main thoroughfares.
"You have two cars?"
"For emergencies. Off-books title. Get in. Keep your head down until we're clear of this area."
I slid into the passenger seat, my heart racing. Rowan started the engine. We emerged from the alley system onto a residential street I didn't recognize.
"Where are we?"
"Taking the long way to your place. If they're watching my building, they might have people positioned along the direct routes." He turned onto another side street, checking his mirrors constantly. "How well do you know your neighbors?"
"Well enough to exchange awkward small talk about the weather. Why?"
"Because if there's surveillance equipment in your apartment, they've been watching your routine for months." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "They know your life better than you do."
We wound through residential streets until my building appeared ahead. "That's your place?" asked Rowan.
"Yeah." The building looked the same as always—brick facade, narrow windows, a crooked number 7 that the landlord never fixed.
Rowan parked two blocks away. "We go in fast, you pack a quick bag, and we find whatever they planted and get out. Don't touch anything you don't have to."
I stared at my building, the place I called home. All of it compromised.
"Ready?" Rowan asked.
I wasn't ready for any of it, but Iris deserved better than my fear. "Let's go."
Crossing the threshold into my apartment was like stepping into someone else's life. The familiar scents—wood polish and the lavender fabric softener I bought because it reminded me of Ma's house—were wrong in a way that made my skin crawl.
Rowan reached out for my wrist. "Don't turn on the main lights. Only the lamp by your desk."
I flicked the switch, and warm yellow light pooled across my living room. Everything was exactly as I'd left it—throw pillows arranged how I liked them, a stack of unread books on the coffee table, and an apple core on a napkin, browned and forgotten.
"Do you conduct sessions at home?" Rowan asked, already moving toward my desk area.
"Not in person," I said. "I do video sessions from here—the chair by the window, laptop on the side table. Clients never come into the apartment."
"Don't touch anything yet." Rowan crouched by the chair. "Just tell me your routine. Where do you sit, where do you take calls, and where do you keep confidential files"?
I watched him work. He ran his fingers along the edges of furniture, probed gaps between cushions, and examined anything that could conceal electronics.
"Miles, come here. Look at this."
Behind my chair, nestled between the wall and a power strip, sat a device the size of a matchbook—Matte black, professional grade, with a tiny antenna that hid in a tangle of computer cables.
My throat constricted. "How long has that been there?"
"Based on the dust pattern? Months. Maybe longer." Rowan stood. "This is high-end surveillance equipment."
My hands started shaking. "They've been listening to my sessions. Every client and conversation—"
"We need to find the others. There will be others." Rowan moved toward my desk.
Desk. Chair. Side table. Every angle sprouted an ear.
"Fuck, Rowan. Iris called in the middle of the night, and then we switched to video. She told me about the mountaintop visualization while they listened."
"Miles—"
"She trusted me. She made me promise not to document what she told me because she was so scared, and I promised her it would stay between us. But it didn't, did it? They heard every word. We might as well have been broadcasting it at T-Mobile Park."
The room tilted slightly, and familiar objects wavered in my vision.
Rowan moved to the kitchen, probing under cabinets and behind appliances. "Another one. Positioned near your old-fashioned landline."
"That's where I take crisis calls. Late-night check-ins, emergency sessions—" My voice cracked.
"Your bedroom," Rowan said quietly. "We need to check your bedroom." He touched my shoulder. "I know this is—"
"Do you?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Do you know what it's like to discover your most sacred space has been violated for months? That every promise of confidentiality I made was a lie?"
"Yes." His voice was quiet but confident. "I know exactly what that feels like."
I stared at him. "Lucia?"
"They had audio surveillance in her apartment, too. Found it after she died." He clenched his jaw. "She thought she was working alone, building a case in private. They heard every strategy session and every moment of doubt."
The bedroom revealed two more devices—one in the lamp beside my bed and another behind my dresser. They were places where I'd talked on my cellphone with my brothers and with Rowan.
All of it violated.
"I have to call them," I said, pulling out my phone with shaky hands. "Every client. They have a right to know their confidentiality was violated."
Rowan caught my wrist. "Miles, relax."
"I don't want to relax. They trusted me to keep their secrets safe, and I failed them." My voice cracked. "Some of them will never trust a therapist again."
"Because of Meridian's crimes," Rowan corrected. "Not because of anything you did."
I was already scrolling through my client list, calculating the conversations I'd need to have, the trust I'd need to rebuild, and the practice I might lose entirely.
I sat on my bed. "I keep trying to think of something funny to say, some joke that makes this manageable. I can't. There's nothing funny about this."
"No, there isn't." Rowan sat beside me, his presence solid and warm.
"Nothing private," I whispered.
Cold fury bled through Rowan's words. "They stole pieces of you. I'll tear them apart for it."
"I can't stay here," I said.
Rowan stood, extending his hand. "No, that's not the plan. Pack what you need. We're leaving."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere they can't listen."
I took his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. I stuffed clothes into a carry-on suitcase with trembling hands, grabbing essentials without thinking—toothbrush, clean shirts, the paperback I'd been meaning to finish for three months.
"We need somewhere they can't track us," Rowan said from the doorway, keeping watch while I packed. "Somewhere off their radar."
"Hotel?" I zipped the bag closed.
"They'll monitor credit cards, probably have facial recognition software running at major chains." He stepped up close. "What about family? Someone with security experience?"
My stomach clenched. "I'm not dragging my brothers into this."
"Miles—"
"No." I dragged the suitcase toward the door. "I've spent my entire adult life keeping them out of my problems. I'm not going to change now."
We made it to the stairwell before Rowan caught my arm. His grip was firm enough to stop my momentum.
"This isn't about pride. It's about survival. Yours and theirs."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"If they can't find you, they'll look for leverage. Family members become targets when the primary subject goes underground. The best way to protect your brothers is to ensure you have backup they can't eliminate."
"You're saying they'd go after Marcus? Michael? They're not involved in any of this."
"Neither were you, until you started asking questions about Iris." Rowan released my arm. "Professional killers don't distinguish between willing participants and stray targets."
My brothers had experienced their fair share of harrowing situations. I'd even gone along to lend… to help. Still, they had no idea their youngest brother was standing in a stairwell discussing professional killers.
"Matthew," I said finally. "He's... he might be able to help."
"The paramedic brother?"
"He has a partner, Dorian, a security consultant." I pulled out my phone to type a message. "They live in a converted warehouse, a lot like yours."
"Can you trust them?"
"With my life." I had no doubts about the loyalty of my brothers. "Matthew would burn down half of Seattle before he'd let someone hurt family."
Rowan nodded. "Make the call. Don't text."
We reached the lobby, and I hesitated with my phone halfway to my ear. Once I involved Matthew, there was no hiding the risk. It would be a family crisis, with all the protective chaos that entailed.
"You sure about this?" I asked Rowan.
"I'm sure that standing in your compromised building's lobby isn't a positive long-term survival strategy."
The phone rang twice before I heard Matthew's warm and slightly confused voice.
"Miles? You didn't text."
"Matthew." I glanced at Rowan, drawing strength from his steady presence. "I need help. Can't explain over the phone, but I need somewhere safe to stay tonight."