14. Rowan #2
I briefly listened to a group of construction workers laughing at a nearby table.
"And you started seeing each other?"
Patricia winced. "Six months of circling each other like wounded animals. He'd offer to walk me to my car after meetings. I'd suggest coffee at the 24-hour place down the street. We both pretended it was a coincidence when we ended up at the same grocery store or bookshop."
"How did you take the next step?"
"David had a terrible night. It was an inconsolable panic attack that lasted three hours. I showed up at the next meeting with huge black circles under my eyes, and Thomas followed me outside afterward."
She pushed the sugar packet away from her.
"He didn't offer advice. He only stood there while I cried in the parking lot, then drove me home because I was too shaky to handle my car. He made tea in my kitchen while I got David settled."
The tenderness in her voice revealed everything about how she'd fallen for him.
"Someone was suddenly taking care of me instead of the other way around. I was desperate for basic human decency."
"But it was more than that."
"Yes." She looked up from her coffee. "He understood guilt in ways that most people don't. We'd take these long walks around Green Lake, discussing responsibility and failure and whether loving someone means protecting them from truth or exposing them to it."
"What did he tell you about his work?"
"Nothing specific. He said he'd participated in medical research that hadn't gone how he'd intended. That people were hurt because of decisions supervisors forced him to make, and he was trying to figure out how to make amends without causing more damage."
"Sounds like a lot of professional guilt."
"That's what I thought. We were two damaged people helping each other process while trying to rebuild something like a normal life."
She pulled her phone from her purse, swiping to a photo that softened her expression. It was two people on a beach somewhere, Patricia laughed while a lean man with graying hair and kind eyes folded her into his arms from behind, and a small boy in the foreground built something in the sand.
"This was last Christmas. David came with us to the Oregon coast."
Her voice broke. "For three days, he remembered how to play. Thomas taught him to skip stones, and David actually laughed when the rocks disappeared into the waves."
She touched the boy's image on the screen. "Thomas said it was like watching David's soul return to life. I thought maybe we were building something sustainable. A family."
She closed the photo. "David hasn't laughed since."
"And? You look like there's more."
"New Year's Eve. Thomas had been drinking more than usual, which wasn't like him. Around midnight, he broke down completely. Started talking about people he'd failed, and those hurt by the research he helped design."
"And then—"
"He was sobbing. Said his real name was Tobias Rook and that powerful people thought he was dead because it was safer for everyone if he stayed that way."
My pulse raced. Patricia Hendricks had fallen in love with Tobias Rook under an assumed identity.
"He told me about his life in Virginia. And he talked about federal agents who'd been investigating until someone made the investigation disappear along with the investigators."
"Lucia Reyes."
Patricia blinked and then sighed deeply. "You know. He said she'd been killed because she'd gotten too close to proving what the facilities were really doing. He was going to testify before her car went off a bridge, and he ran to avoid ending up dead."
I reached out to cover one of her trembling hands with mine. "So you've been protecting him."
"I've been loving him." Her voice was fierce. "Thomas—Tobias—whatever name he uses, he's not the monster who designed those protocols. He's the man who's spent two years documenting every institutional failure that enabled this network to operate."
"While you documented it from the inside."
"We've been building parallel cases. His evidence proves the medical lies and human experimentation. Mine proves the insurance fraud and institutional cover-up." She leaned forward. "It is enough to bring down the entire operation."
"Then why haven't you?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Because the moment we share that evidence, every federal agency starts hunting the man I love. They think he's dead, and they'll kill him for his past, and they'll kill me to eliminate the witness who kept him alive."
The moral calculus was staggering—two people with evidence that could save hundreds of future victims, trapped by the knowledge that seeking justice would cost them everything.
"How many more children like David have suffered while you protected Rook?"
Patricia flinched. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't count every day, every new victim, and every family destroyed while I chose love over justice?"
I saw the cost of carrying that impossible choice for over a year in every line on her face.
"Is there another way?"
Patricia reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She opened the metal clasp.
Fifty-three million," she said. "That's what Meridian billed insurers in eighteen months."
The paperwork was clinical—policy numbers, tidy invoice lines, wire transfers—perfectly designed to pass automated review. The real treatment, she said, ran in unmarked clinics and didn't appear on any bill that regulators would expect to see.
"They built a paper trail that looks legitimate," she said. "But behind it is a tangle of shell companies feeding one offshore account."
She tapped a sketch of corporate nodes. "Seventeen shells, one Cayman spine."
I studied the web of financial connections. "It's run by someone with robust resources."
"Someone who understands federal oversight well enough to exploit its gaps.
" Patricia pulled out her phone, swiping through photos of documents.
"These are compliance audits I've been filing quarterly.
Perfect scores across the board, because I'm auditing facilities that don't provide services that match their billing records. "
"You've been falsifying federal reports."
"I've been documenting a fraud network while appearing to validate it." The distinction mattered to her, even if federal prosecutors wouldn't care about the nuance. "Every false report includes digital breadcrumbs that would lead investigators to the real evidence if they knew how to look."
She slid over a photo of a compliance checklist, red boxes scattered through the form.
"It's all binary code," she explained, voice low but charged. "Routing numbers, addresses, dates—hidden in plain sight."
Pride shone in her eyes, and I felt a flicker of respect. Patricia was actively outsmarting the system.
"Does Rook know about your documentation methods?"
"He designed them. Tobias spent fifteen years in federal research. He knows how to hide information in bureaucratic systems where nobody bothers to look."
I photographed the documents with my phone, though I suspected Patricia had digital copies secured somewhere. "What's the extent of their geographical operations?"
"Facilities in seventeen cities, probably more we haven't identified.
Seattle, Portland, San Francisco on the West Coast. Austin, Houston, Denver inland.
Baltimore, Richmond, Atlanta across the South.
All clustered around major medical centers where they can recruit established trauma therapists as unwitting referral sources. "
"Like Miles."
"Like dozens of therapists whose sessions they've infiltrated. They identify successful treatment cases, then intercept patients during vulnerable transition periods." Patricia's hands clenched into fists. "It's systematic harvesting of people who've learned to trust the therapeutic process."
My phone buzzed against the table. Text message:
Unknown number: Running late. Traffic nightmare on I-405.
I showed the screen to Patricia. "Anyone you're expecting?"
"No." She checked her own phone, frowning at what she found there. "That's strange."
"What's strange?"
"Text from Tobias. Same time as yours, but he rarely contacts me during daylight hours. Too dangerous."
"You had an exchange when he met Miles."
She pulled her hand back from mine. "It was a false alarm, and a mistake to contact him then."
"What does his new message say?"
"Meeting running over. Will contact you tonight instead of this afternoon.'" She looked up. "But we didn't have plans to meet this afternoon."
I started to stand. "Don't trust either message. They might be phishing to confirm our location. We need to move. Now."
"Wait." Patricia reached across the table to grip my wrist. "There's more you need to understand about what you're walking into."
She pulled out a flash drive, small enough to hide in a closed fist. Her hands shook as she stared at it. "Three years," she whispered. "Every late night, every falsified report, every time I chose silence while more children got hurt."
Her voice cracked. "Everything's on here. Financial records, patient files, correspondence with Tobias, and proof of federal oversight failures. It should be enough to bring down the entire network."
"And get Rook killed in the process."
"Yes." She pressed it into my palm, her fingers lingering against mine like she was transferring custody of her soul. "I'm putting his life in your hands. A stranger's hands. Because I have no choice left."
A tear dropped onto our joined hands. "Forty-eight hours. Two days to get Tobias somewhere safe. After that, you can destroy everything we've built if it means stopping them."
Her phone buzzed again. This time, her face went pale as she read the message.
"What is it?"
"I'm being called for an emergency meeting at the office. My supervisor wants to see me immediately regarding irregularities in recent compliance reports."
"They know," I said.
Patricia nodded. "They've known for a while. Probably just needed evidence to justify bringing me in for questioning."
She reached back into her bag, pulling out additional documents and pushing them across the table toward me. "Patient records, financial transactions, and shell company formations. Everything I couldn't digitize safely."
"Patricia—"
"Promise me something." Her grip tightened on my wrist. "When you find Tobias—and you will find him—tell him I said the lighthouse still stands. He'll understand what that means."
Before I could respond, she glanced toward the diner's entrance and froze.
Three figures in dark suits approached.
"Time's up," Patricia whispered.
The lead agent pushed through Denny's glass door, flanked by two others whose bulky suits couldn't disguise the tactical gear underneath. They moved in formation—one toward our booth, the others positioning to block exits.
Patricia rose and stood facing the agent.
He spoke. "I'm Agent Andrews. Dr. Patricia Hendricks, you're under arrest for obstruction of justice, accessory to fraud, and conspiracy to interfere with federal investigations."
Around us, conversations died mid-sentence, coffee cups paused halfway to lips, and every head turned toward our booth. Brenda, the server, backed away from our table, coffeepot clutched against her chest.
"May I finish my coffee?" Patricia asked.
Andrews nodded to one of his partners. The other agent produced cuffs. "We'll advise you of your rights at the vehicle."
I started to slide from my seat. Andrews turned his attention to me. "Stay put, Mr. Ashcroft. We'll want to speak with you as well."
They guided Patricia toward the exit, the lead agent grabbing her messenger bag while one of the other agents scooped up the documents from our table. I watched them confiscate evidence that might have been our only proof of the network's scope and financial operations.
They missed the flash drive in my palm beneath the table. And they missed the patient files I'd photographed with my phone.
Agent Andrews returned alone, sliding into the booth Patricia had vacated. His suit smelled of cigarettes.
"And you're Rowan Ashcroft. Former FBI, currently unemployed except for a podcast that approximately seventeen people listen to."
"Closer to twenty-three thousand subscribers, but who's counting"?
"What do you know about the investigation, Mr. Ashcroft?"
"What investigation?"
"Mr. Ashcroft, you're walking a very thin line here. Conspiracy theories about cover-ups don't excuse interfering with legitimate law enforcement operations."
"Is that what this is? Legitimate law enforcement?"
"Dr. Hendricks will be processed through federal custody, where she'll have the opportunity to provide complete information about her illegal activities and any co-conspirators, including podcasters who encourage civil servants to violate their oaths of office."
The threat was clear enough. They were watching me, probably had been since my first meeting with Miles. One wrong move, and I'd join Patricia in federal custody.
"Am I free to go?"
"For now. But Mr. Ashcroft?" The agent stood along with me and straightened his jacket. "Stay available. We'll probably want to continue this conversation very soon."