15. Miles #2
Dorian, without looking up: "I'm imaging the drive now. Tableau write-blocker engaged. Pre-image SHA-256 recorded. Kicking off a bit-for-bit image to an isolated forensic workstation—will verify post-image hash and log chain of custody."
Michael turned his attention to the small black rectangle. "What's on it?"
"Her entire case," Rowan said. His voice was raw but steady. "Three years of records and notes."
"And personal revelations," I added. "David's not her nephew. He's her son. And she was protecting Rook."
Alex settled onto the couch, Luna curling into his lap, head pressed under his hand. "That complicates her reliability."
"It complicates her," Rowan corrected. "Not her evidence."
Michael shook his head once. "We have federal evidence, possibly classified, definitely compromised. That makes us accessories if the Bureau wants to press it."
"Which is why I'm drafting counsel options," Marcus said, flipping a page. "Rivera & Koh. Federal defense, competent with chain of custody."
Matthew finally left the sink and planted himself at the counter again, arms crossed, flour marks on his shirt. "What we're not doing is abandoning this. Patricia knew the cost. She handed it over anyway. Walking away now? That's like letting someone bleed out because the scene's too dangerous."
Silence reigned again. Only the dogs moved—Charlie inching closer, Luna sniffing his ear with tentative curiosity.
I tugged Rowan toward the guest room before the next round of arguments could start. He followed without protest, coat left draped and dripping on a chair. The door clicked behind us, muffling Marcus's low voice and the muted buzz of Dorian's laptop fan.
Rowan collapsed into Matthew's reading chair. Wet hair clung to his forehead. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if darkness might blunt the weight pressing down on him.
"I led them straight to her," he said.
"You didn't," I countered, sitting on the bed's edge. "They were there for her. You just happened to be in the blast radius."
His hands dropped, revealing gray-green eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "She was smiling, Miles, when they led her out. Like she'd been waiting for it. I can't stop seeing it."
"She handed you the drive first." I leaned forward. "That's not a trap. That's a handoff. She wanted someone to carry it when she couldn't anymore."
A brittle laugh escaped his lips. "You're generous with motives."
"I'm a therapist. I get paid to find silver linings in shit storms."
Rowan raked his fingers through his hair, leaving spikes in their wake. "Everyone who helps me gets hurt. Rook. Patricia. Now—" He stopped, and his jaw tightened.
"Now what?" I asked.
He stared at me. "Now you."
I swallowed. "I'm still here."
"Because you're reckless, too."
I stood and walked over to him, reaching for his hand. "Maybe that's true."
He stared at me, rising to his feet. "You scare the hell out of me," he whispered. "Not because of what we're chasing. Because of what I'd lose if I knew I wouldn't see you again."
The words sounded like a diagnosis I didn't want to hear. My knees wobbled, but Rowan's arms caught me around my waist, and we held each other for a moment.
"I've told my clients that healthy relationships don't form during a crisis." I leaned my head against his shoulder. "Trauma bonding isn't real intimacy."
"And now?"
"Now I think maybe I was protecting myself more than my clients." I pulled back to look into his eyes. "This scares me, too. Needing someone when everyone who gets close to us ends up in handcuffs or worse."
He cradled my cheek in his hand. "We could walk away. Right now. Hand the drive to Marcus and let the federal system handle it."
"Could you? Really?"
He offered a rueful smile. "No. And neither could you. We're both too fucked up to choose safety over justice."
"So what does that make us?"
"Partners," he said, and it was more than a romantic notion. "No more solos. Whatever happens, we face it together."
I kissed him then—not brief, not gentle, but desperate and claiming and full of the terrible knowledge that tomorrow we might not get another chance.
My work phone buzzed on the nightstand. I turned to check it.
Rowan's eyes narrowed. "Unknown?"
"No caller ID."
"Answer anyway," he said.
It was an unfamiliar female voice. "Dr. McCabe."
"Who—"
"Dr. McCabe, this is Dr. Celeste Harrow." Her voice was measured and professional, threaded with a hint of warmth. "I hope I'm not intruding."
Every muscle in my back locked. Harrow.
"I wasn't expecting—how did you get this number?"
"Through professional channels," she said smoothly. "I've become aware of troubling compliance issues in our field. Exploitation of trauma survivors. Systematic privacy violations. And your advocacy has reached me through colleagues. I believe you may have been targeted yourself."
I glanced at Rowan. He froze, suddenly fully alert.
"What makes you think that?" I asked.
"The kind of resistance you've shown attracts predators.
I know—my research on accelerated trauma resolution has been stolen, corrupted, and weaponized by those who care nothing about healing.
They're turning treatment into control. And you, Dr. McCabe, are precisely the kind of therapist they would seek to neutralize. "
The comments sounded real, not rehearsed. A tiny voice in my head said to hang up, but the rest stopped me. I engaged instead.
"What are you suggesting?"
"That we work together," she said. "That we reform what they've stolen. Restore trust. Offer survivors help, not harm." A beat of silence. "I'd like to meet you, Dr. McCabe. Share my frameworks and explore opportunities for collaboration."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "I'd need proof. Something I can verify."
"Of course." Her voice was calm. "I'll forward a preregistered DOI and checksum for my draft framework. You can authenticate its integrity before any further discussions."
Either she was casting bait, or her offer was authentic. Testable and credible.
The muffled voices of my family drifted under the door—Marcus, Dorian, Matthew. I knew they'd instantly howl if they knew about the call.
"Dr. Harrow," I said carefully, "if your words are true, your work could change everything. But if they aren't—"
"Then you'll know when you authenticate the files," she interrupted. "I'll send them within the hour."
The line went dead.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "A recruitment pitch?"
"That or the breakthrough we've been chasing. My gut says both are possible."
The guest room door creaked open. Marcus stood framed by the glow of monitors, a legal pad in hand. "Who was that?"
I met his gaze. "Dr. Celeste Harrow. She wants to collaborate."
His jaw tightened. "I suppose it's fruitless to suggest you cut this off, but whatever happens next happens under full oversight."
Rowan reached out for my hand.
I nodded. "Agreed. She'll understand why I don't work alone if she's genuine."
Outside the window, the rain eased into a fine mist. Charlie barked once in the main room. Luna answered with a soft yip.
For a minute, I had to hold in my mind two contradicting notions. Harrow's offer was either salvation or a trap.