12. Rowan #2
"He's also the key to understanding how they identify and target victims," I countered. "Without his therapeutic expertise—"
"Without him alive, his expertise is useless." Marcus looked up from his notes. "Rowan, I appreciate your professional investment, but our priority is keeping Miles breathing."
Familiar frustration clawed at my throat. The same institutional thinking buried Lucia's investigation, prioritizing individual safety over systemic justice. "Your priority. Not necessarily his."
"The hell it isn't his," Michael snapped. "Miles doesn't get to vote himself into a coffin because he feels guilty about a client."
"That's not what this is about—"
"Isn't it?" Marcus set down his pen. "You've spent years chasing conspiracies solo. Now you've convinced my brother it's his fight, too. That's not partnership—that's recruitment."
It landed square. My jaw locked. They were reading me like a suspect, looking for psychological motivations beneath my surface behaviors.
James cleared his throat. "From a policy perspective, federal involvement makes sense. We're talking about healthcare fraud and possibly RICO violations. Local law enforcement lacks the appropriate resources for this type of investigation."
"Federal involvement also means federal bureaucracy," I said, trying not to sound desperate. "Jurisdictional disputes and political considerations. By the time they mobilize, our sources will be dead."
"Better than our brother being dead," Matthew said quietly.
I looked around the table—faces united by blood and chosen loyalty focused on keeping Miles safe. It was both beautiful and terrifying, a wall of protection that could easily become a cage.
Alex spoke for the first time since the meal began. "What about a hybrid approach? Federal resources for protection, and an independent, parallel investigation continuing?"
"How do we coordinate that without compromising either effort?" Dorian asked. "If federal agencies are investigating, they'll want complete information sharing. That could expose ongoing private operations."
"What ongoing operations?" Michael's tone sharpened. "Are you telling me you two are planning an active investigation while federal conspirators try to eliminate witnesses?"
I glanced at Miles, who'd been unusually quiet since his mother's arrival. He sat with hands clasped, watching the discussion like he was observing a tennis match.
"We aim to find Patricia Hendricks and Tobias Rook before they disappear permanently," Miles said finally. "Someone needs to recover the evidence they've been gathering."
"That someone would be a career investigator," Marcus insisted. "Not a civilian podcaster and a therapist."
"With all due respect, law enforcement doesn't know what to look for," I said. "I've been an expert witness in the past. They don't understand the therapeutic manipulation and systematic exploitation of trauma survivors."
"Then you consult," Michael said. "You provide expertise to qualified investigators while staying safely in protective custody."
Ma McCabe, who'd been listening with the patience of someone accustomed to managing strong-willed sons, finally spoke. "And what does Miles want?"
The question refocused everyone's attention. Miles straightened and consciously chose to step out of his usual family role—entertainer and pressure valve.
"I want justice for Iris Delacroix," he said quietly. "I want to stop them from destroying more trauma survivors, and I want to do it in a way that honors the trust my clients place in me."
"Which doesn't require putting yourself in the line of fire," Marcus said.
"Doesn't it?" Miles stared back at his oldest brother. "They violated my practice. They turned my therapeutic relationships into surveillance operations. How do I restore that trust by hiding while others try to clean up the mess?"
The pain in his voice was raw.
"Miles," Matthew said gently, "you can't save everyone. Some things are bigger than individual therapy."
"This started with individual therapy. Iris's therapy. Mrs. Kim's. Several others who trusted me to protect their secrets." Miles clenched his hands into fists. "If I step back now, how can I ever sit across from another trauma survivor and promise them a safe atmosphere for talking?"
His question crystallized what I'd been struggling to articulate—the difference between physical safety and professional integrity.
"You rebuild," Dorian said pragmatically. "New office, enhanced security, better screening protocols. You adapt and continue."
"After letting other people fight battles that are fundamentally about therapeutic ethics?" Miles shook his head. "That's not rebuilding—that's hiding in the shadows."
"It's called staying alive," Michael said bluntly.
The debate spiraled, each side entrenched in valid but incompatible positions. I recognized the dynamic from failed FBI operations—good people with reasonable concerns, working at cross-purposes because they couldn't reconcile individual safety with systemic needs.
Ma McCabe stood, and the room went quiet. She walked to the tall windows, looking out at Georgetown's industrial landscape.
"You know," she said without turning around, "when the boys' father died, I had a choice.
I could have insisted on keeping them safe at home, never letting them follow in his footsteps, and making sure they never faced the dangers that killed him.
" She paused. "Or trust that I'd raised them to make good choices about the battles worth fighting. "
She turned back to the room, her gaze settling on each of her sons. "Marcus joined the fire department anyway. Michael chose SWAT. Matthew became a paramedic. All of you ran toward danger because that's who you are."
Her attention shifted to me. "And you left federal service because institutional politics were more dangerous to your soul than physical threats were to your body."
Her assessment was uncomfortably accurate. I nodded.
"So tell me," Ma McCabe continued, returning to her chair, "how is this different? How is asking Miles to step back from something that matters to his professional identity any different from me trying to keep my other sons away from the work that defines them?"
Her question silenced the room. Around the table, I watched four grown men process their mother's logic.
Marcus was the first to respond. "It's different because Miles didn't train for this kind of danger."
"Neither was I when I started investigating Lucia's death," I said quietly. "Training helps, but it's not everything. Sometimes conviction and desperation are more valuable than tactical expertise."
"Sometimes they get you killed," Michael countered.
Miles spoke in a steady voice. "And sometimes hiding from danger gets other people killed while you stay safely uninvolved.
I've been carrying guilt about Iris for eighteen months because I didn't act on what I knew.
I won't carry guilt about Patricia Hendricks and Tobias Rook for the rest of my life because I chose safety over justice. "
The room was silent except for Charlie's soft snoring and distant freight traffic.
James spoke first. "What if we compromise? Federal resources for protection and official investigation, but Miles and Rowan stay here for now—under Matthew and Dorian's roof. Let things cool down a few days before either of you step back into the field."
"Consultants with bodyguards," Dorian said dryly.
Alex added, "And digital security on every line. Michael's contacts can have a team here in minutes if anything shifts."
The dynamic shifted: not isolation, but protection through overwhelming support.
Marcus folded his arms, thinking it through. "That could work. Coordinated oversight, a pause to lower the temperature, and a hybrid plan where Miles stays involved in his area of expertise."
Michael still frowned. "It's dangerous."
"So is triage on a highway pileup," Matthew countered. "So is SWAT. So is running into a burning building."
Marcus gave a slow nod. "We all chose our risks. Maybe it's time to trust Miles to choose his. After we give the situation a little breathing room."
Ma McCabe smiled. "Then we're agreed," she said. "Family resources, federal support, and professional security. Miles gets to do what he needs to do to sleep at night."
"Thank you," I said. "All of you."
"Don't thank us yet," Michael said. "Thank us when we're all alive at the end of this."
The conversation splintered into tactical fragments. Overlapping voices of people who solved problems for a living filled the loft while they built a protective infrastructure around Miles.
I sat watching a family machine I'd never learned to operate. Miles belonged in the middle of it. Miles fit in like a missing puzzle piece. It was all natural and seamless, the kind of belonging I'd forgotten existed.
They were everything I'd never had. Everything I'd convinced myself I didn't need.
What happened when this crisis was over? When the immediate threat passed, and Miles no longer needed a partner for a dangerous investigation? Would I fade back into warehouse isolation while he returned to family dinners and therapeutic practice?
Miles had a life and a family. He had a professional identity that existed independently of whatever brief alliance we'd formed. I had evidence walls and podcast equipment and chronic hypervigilance that made long-term relationships nearly impossible.
Miles watched me. "Rowan, can I talk to you privately for a minute?"
"We should probably stay focused on tactical planning—"
"Five minutes," he said, already standing. "Matthew, can we use the kitchen area?"
"Of course." Matthew glanced at each of us. "Take your time."
Miles leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying me intently. "Want to tell me what's going on?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look lost, like the little boy who wasn't chosen for kickball."
"I—no."