18. Rowan #2
"Toxin, self-administered. He said it would be untraceable after six hours." I stepped back, giving them room to work. "Suicide to avoid capture."
"Did he provide any intelligence before expiring?"
The clinical word scraped against my nerves. Expiring. Like Rook was a parking meter instead of a human being.
"Some," I said. "I'll need to debrief with appropriate channels."
Andrews's eyes narrowed. "Appropriate channels being?"
"People with clearance levels I can verify." I stared back without flinching. "This operation involves federal crimes, interstate conspiracy, and witness protection concerns. I'm not briefing field agents in a container yard."
One of Andrews's team members finished photographing the scene and approached with an evidence kit. "Sir, we should process this location thoroughly. Potential federal crime scene."
"Agreed." Andrews stood, brushing gravel from his knees. "Mr. Ashcroft, you'll need to provide a detailed statement. Tonight."
"Tomorrow," I countered. "After I've had time to organize materials and consult with appropriate counsel."
After a long pause, Andrews nodded.
"Twenty-four hours. Don't make us come looking for you."
I walked away from them. My legs were unsteady. Behind me, federal agents processed evidence and took photographs, reducing tragedy to paperwork with bureaucratic efficiency.
My drive back to the warehouse passed in a blur of red taillights and rain-slicked streets. I kept the radio off, needing the silence to process what had happened. If I'd arrived earlier and been smarter somehow, maybe Rook would be alive.
My phone buzzed against the passenger seat halfway back. I didn't dare check it on the wet streets, not with my hands shaking. When I finally parked in front of the warehouse, I turned the screen over.
Miles: How did it go? Is Rook safe?
Inside, Miles was waiting for answers I didn't know how to give—waiting for hope I no longer felt.
I sat in the car for five minutes, trying to construct a professional debrief. When I finally climbed the stairs and swiped my card at the door, I knew there was no hiding from what had happened.
The lock disengaged with its familiar electronic chirp. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Miles looked up from Dorian's workstation, and I watched his expression shift from relief to alarm in a heartbeat. Charlie padded over, tail wagging tentatively, but even the dog seemed to sense something was wrong.
"Where's Rook?"
"Dead."
Miles's face went pale, and he took a half-step toward me before stopping, reading something in my posture that warned him to proceed carefully.
"Suicide—self-administered poison," I began, voice steady and detached. "He was already dying when I arrived, approximately thirty minutes after taking it."
"Rowan." Miles's voice was soft, careful. "Sit down."
"I need to document—" My voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly I couldn't remember why documentation mattered. Rook was dead. Patricia was in custody. Years of investigation had just collapsed into nothing.
Miles moved toward me with the gentle approach he probably used with traumatized clients. "The documentation can wait. Sit down."
My legs gave out before I could argue, and I sat in the chair beside Dorian's monitors, staring at surveillance feeds of empty streets. Miles disappeared into the kitchen area, returning with a mug of something that steamed and smelled like chamomile.
"Drink," he said.
The tea tasted like nothing, but the heat anchored me and reminded me I was still alive while Rook wasn't.
"I held another dying witness," I whispered. "Like Lucia, except this time I was there to watch it happen."
Miles settled into the chair beside me. "Tell me what happened."
The words spilled out in broken fragments—Rook's paranoia, the poisoning, his final confession about Patricia's impossible position. Miles listened without interruption, occasionally reaching out to touch my hand or shoulder when my voice threatened to fail.
"He loved her," I said finally. "Patricia. They'd been together for two years, and he knew that staying alive meant she could never use her evidence. So he killed himself to set her free."
"Fuck," Miles breathed.
"Everyone who helps me dies, Miles. Lucia, Rook, probably Patricia before this is over."
"That's not—"
"What if I'm the common denominator?" The question erupted out of me. "What if I'm the reason they all get killed? Maybe I'm not hunting a conspiracy—maybe I'm the bait that draws people to their death."
Miles was quiet for a long moment. I could almost hear his therapist's brain processing my words and calculating a trauma response.
"You didn't poison Rook," he said finally. "You didn't push Lucia's car off the road. You didn't orchestrate Patricia's arrest."
Miles spoke with quiet authority. "They're dead because other people killed them. Rook didn't die because he met you tonight. He died because he witnessed crimes, and they know he's been gathering evidence."
I shook my head. "You don't understand. There's a pattern here—"
"What pattern?" Miles refused to let me hide behind professional distance. "Walk me through it. Step by step."
"Every person who's helped me ends up dead or destroyed." I stood abruptly, needing space to pace. "Lucia investigates with me, dies in a car accident. Rook agrees to testify, disappears for three years, and dies tonight. Patricia documents evidence, gets arrested."
"And you think you caused all of that?" Miles remained seated, watching me. "Help me understand the mechanism. How exactly did your investigation kill Lucia?"
The question stopped me mid-pace. "What?"
"You heard me. Walk me through the causal chain. How did Rowan Ashcroft, podcaster and former FBI agent, cause Agent Lucia Reyes to drive off a bridge?"
"I—" I started, then faltered. "We were investigating together. If we hadn't been building the case—"
"If you hadn't been building the case, Lucia would never have discovered Meridian's crimes?" Miles's voice was patient but persistent. "Or would she have discovered them anyway, because that was her job?"
My logic was slippery. "She died because we were getting close."
"She died because someone killed her to protect their crimes," Miles corrected gently. "Those are two very different things. One makes you responsible for her death. The other makes you a fellow victim of the same criminals."
I sank back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "It feels the same."
"I know it does." Miles reached out slowly. He wove his fingers together with mine, slow and steady. "Survivor's guilt is a son of a bitch. It convinces us we're responsible for tragedies we couldn't prevent."
"But if I'd never contacted these people—"
"Rook would still be in hiding, Patricia would still be trapped in silence, and Meridian would still be destroying trauma survivors." Miles squeezed my hand. "The investigation didn't create the danger, Rowan. It exposed danger that already existed."
I closed my eyes. "Then why does it hurt so much?"
"Because you care about people." Miles shifted closer, his knee bumping against mine. "Watching someone die right in front of you is one of the most horrible of traumas, whether you caused it or not. Grief is grief."
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. "I should have saved him. I should have gotten there earlier, found a way to—"
"To what? Overpower a man who'd already poisoned himself? Reverse the effect of a toxin with your podcaster superpowers?" It was gentle humor, not mockery. "Rowan, you're not actually a superhero. You can't save everyone."
"I couldn't save anyone."
Miles was quiet for a moment, thumb tracing patterns across my knuckles. "What did Rook tell you before he died?"
"That Patricia's evidence is legally unusable because—"
"No." Miles's interruption was soft but firm. "What did he tell you? Not about legal complications or tactical problems. What did he say about Patricia?"
I closed my eyes, recalling those final moments in the container yard. "That he loved her. That staying alive trapped her, so he chose to die."
"He chose to die for love," Miles said quietly. "That's not your burden to carry."
I looked into his blue eyes.
"You think I'm being irrational."
"I think you're being human." Miles brought our joined hands up between us, pressing my palm against his chest where his heart beat steadily. "Feel that? You're alive. I'm alive. We're here together because of the choices we made, not because you failed to save people from the choices they made."
I leaned into his touch, letting my eyes drift closed. When I opened them again, Miles was watching me with an expression I'd never seen before—professional compassion mixed with something more profound.
"Rook's death matters because his life mattered," Miles said. "Patricia's sacrifice matters because she chose to preserve evidence rather than protect herself. Lucia's death matters because she was fighting for justice when they killed her."
His words settled into the wounded places inside me, not healing them but making them bearable. I realized I was crying, the grief starting to flow.
"I'm tired," I said. "I'm so fucking tired of being alone with this."
"You're not alone." Miles leaned forward. "Not anymore."