14. Rowan
Chapter fourteen
Rowan
T he burner phone's keypad clicked under my fingertips as I punched in the number I'd memorized from Patricia Hendricks's employment file. Three rings, then her voicemail—professional, clipped.
I ended the call, snapped the SIM wafer, then gave it a ten-second microwave kiss under a ceramic mug. The plastic frame went into three different garbage cans on my walk home.
I pored over transit maps on my laptop at Matthew's kitchen table.
Renton sat 25 minutes south on I-405, far enough from Seattle's federal buildings to discourage casual surveillance but close enough for a quick escape if things went sideways.
The particular Denny's I'd chosen hunkered beside a truck stop, surrounded by industrial warehouses and 24-hour businesses that generated constant traffic. Perfect cover.
The screen glowed as I pulled up satellite images of the area, memorizing sight lines and exit routes. Two freeway on-ramps within half a mile. A freight rail line that paralleled the highway. Service roads that connected to residential neighborhoods, in case I needed to disappear on foot.
Twenty-three years of government employment, and Patricia Hendricks had never taken a sick day until her nephew entered Meridian's system. The absence records painted a picture of someone watching a child disintegrate while maintaining perfect professional composure during business hours.
I closed the laptop to make a cup of tea.
Miles would want to come. Partnership meant shared risk, shared decision-making, and all the messy complications of caring about someone else's safety.
This was different—preliminary contact with a potential asset who might be hostile, compromised, or simply too scared to cooperate.
He was still asleep in Matthew's guest room.
If I brought him and things went wrong, I'd be responsible for putting him in federal crosshairs.
If I went alone and things went right, I'd be jumping the gun on our promise to Miles's family about a cooling-off period.
I wouldn't come out as a clean winner regardless of what happened.
I heard a whispered voice. "Why are you awake?"
It was Miles padding out to the kitchen in his bare feet. I wanted to take him with me and chat and laugh along the drive. I couldn't take the risk.
"Set up an early meeting for tomorrow morning."
"You and who else? How early?"
Truth meant risk, but I was knowledgeable enough about relationships to know lies could stop it before it had a chance to begin.
"Five AM departure. Surveillance sweep and a preliminary contact."
Miles retrieved a tea bag and a mug from a cabinet. "With who? Are you going alone?"
Miles deserved to know, but once I told him, he'd insist on coming, and he might even tell his brothers. If he came with me, I'd filter every tactical decision through the knowledge that someone I loved could be hurt.
Someone I loved.
The thought arrived without warning. When did that happen? We'd shared a bed, but the leap to love…"
"Hendricks. The bureaucrat who dismissed us."
"She contacted you?"
"Other way around. Using her nephew's case as leverage."
"Can I come as backup?"
He asked with no emotion in his voice. It was what a good partner would ask.
"I'd prefer not for initial contact. Too many variables."
He poured hot water over the tea bag. "I suppose there's no convincing—"
"No."
"And I shouldn't—"
"Right."
Miles leaned against the counter and gazed into my eyes. "Then be careful."
"Always am."
"Bullshit. You're methodical. That's different from careful."
I stared back at him. He was invested in my survival.
"I'll do my best."
"Good. Then you'll text me as soon as you're on your way back."
***
Denny's at dawn reeked of industrial coffee and bacon grease. I claimed a corner booth with clear sightlines to both entrances. My server's nametag read "Brenda" in faded letters.
Long-haul truckers nursed hangovers, third-shift workers grabbed breakfast before heading home, and a few customers looked like they never slept.
Patricia Hendricks arrived seventeen minutes late, scanning the dining room.
Her wool coat hung loose on a frame that had lost weight since our previous meeting, and she wore her previously perfect hair pulled back in a functional ponytail.
As soon as she spotted me, she nodded in recognition. She slid into the booth across from me without eye contact, gripping her purse like a shield.
"Dr. Hendricks. I'm Rowan—"
"Mr. Ashcroft, I know who you are. I suspected it might be you… or your companion. You were with Dr. McCabe in my office. I thought he might be able to help, and anyone he brought along wouldn't be ordinary backup. You mentioned David's case file."
"I did." I pushed a menu toward her. "Hungry?"
She shook her head, caught Brenda's attention, and pointed at my coffee cup. Her hands trembled slightly.
"How do you know about David?"
"Public records. Residential treatment facilities are supposed to report outcomes to state oversight agencies. David's file shows a gap—six weeks where nobody knows where he was or what happened to him."
Patricia's coffee arrived in a ceramic mug. I pressed her, leaning in. "And you think that gap is connected to your investigation?"
"I think the same network that targeted Iris Delacroix recruited David and dozens of other trauma victims. I think you've been protecting that network for three years while it destroyed more people."
She flinched. "You don't know anything about protection."
"Then tell me what I'm missing."
Around us, the diner's morning routine continued—orders called out, and the hiss of eggs hitting hot grease.
"David wasn't my nephew," she said finally. "He was my son."
The words rearranged everything I thought I knew about her motivations.
"Adoption?"
"His parents—my sister and her husband—died in a car accident when David was six. I was his only living relative." Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. "He'd been in the backseat when it happened. Watched them die. The trauma was—he'd wake up screaming every night for months."
She pulled out her phone, swiping to a photo of a dark-haired boy with a gap-toothed smile.
"I tried everything. Pediatric therapists, play therapy, and art therapy.
Some of it helped, but David still struggled.
Still had nightmares and panic attacks. Then someone from Meridian Wellness Group called. "
"How did they know about David?"
"They said his regular therapist had referred him. Dr. Simmons had been treating David for six months, making real progress. When I called to confirm, Dr. Simmons said he'd never heard of Meridian."
It was the same pattern as Iris and the others. They'd monitored David's therapy sessions, waiting for the optimal moment to recruit him.
"But you let them take him anyway."
A bitter laugh erupted. "They weren't taking him anywhere.
It was supposed to be outpatient treatment—two hours, three times a week, for a specialized program that could resolve childhood trauma in eight weeks instead of years.
They had medical licenses, insurance approval, and testimonials from other families whose children had been cured. "
She made air quotes around the word "cured."
"What happened during those eight weeks?"
"For the first month, David was better. He relaxed more and slept through the night.
He even laughed a few times. I thought it was working.
" She wiped her eyes with a paper napkin.
"Then he started forgetting things. Little things at first—where he'd put his backpack, what we'd had for dinner the night before. Then bigger things."
"Like what?"
"He couldn't remember his parents' names. Couldn't remember the bedtime stories his mother used to tell him." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They'd erased every happy memory he had, leaving only the trauma and the fear."
"Did you report it?"
"To whom? Meridian claimed David was having a normal adjustment reaction to therapy. His insurance company said the treatment was medically necessary and properly documented. The state licensing board told me they'd investigate, but that was three years ago."
"And you've been documenting their operations ever since?"
Patricia nodded. "Every facility license they've applied for and every insurance claim they've submitted. I've been building a case from the inside, using my position to gather evidence that couldn't be ignored or explained away."
"Why haven't you taken it to federal authorities?"
I watched Patricia wrestle with her answer.
"Because there's another victim," she said finally. "It's someone else I care about who would die if I exposed them before he's ready."
Patricia stared into her coffee.
"There's a support group," she said finally. "For people raising traumatized children. Meets twice a month in a church basement in Bellevue. Folding chairs arranged in circles and a rotating cast of exhausted caregivers trying to figure out how to help kids who've seen too much."
I waited for her to continue.
"I started going after David came back from Meridian. Thought maybe other people dealing with similar situations might have strategies I hadn't considered."
She pulled a sugar packet from the table's dispenser and tapped it with a fingertip.
"That's where I met Thomas Mitchell. He was quiet.
Always sat in the back row and listened more than he talked.
When he did speak, he sounded wise—questions about trauma responses and suggestions about therapeutic approaches that actually helped.
He said he was a researcher studying childhood trauma recovery to improve treatment protocols. "
"From Virginia?"
"Yeah. Soft accent, the kind that comes from money and education. He'd moved to Seattle for a consulting position but couldn't discuss specifics. Said it involved confidential medical research."