19. Miles
Chapter nineteen
Miles
I found Rowan hunched at Matthew's kitchen island, wearing a jacket against the morning chill. His fingers wrapped around a mug, but the coffee had gone cold. A skin had formed across the surface.
"You didn't sleep." Stating the obvious was easier than asking how he felt about watching a man die.
His shoulders twitched—barely a shrug. "Kept seeing his face." The words came out raw. "How he looked as the poison took hold. Like he was already gone, but his body hadn't figured it out yet."
I poured fresh coffee into a clean mug. "Rook made his choice," I said gently, settling onto the stool beside him.
"Did he? Or did we back him into a corner where death was the only option that made sense?"
Survivor's guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. "Drink this fresh coffee." I nudged the new mug toward him. "Let your body remember it's still alive."
I returned to the coffee maker to fill my own mug. "I have a consultation this afternoon."
Rowan's threat radar activated despite the fog of grief. "What kind of consultation?"
My rehearsed answer tumbled out. "Research collaboration. Someone who might have insights about therapeutic approaches."
"With who?"
He wouldn't let me hide.
"A trauma researcher. Dr. Celeste Harrow." I watched his face for recognition.
His brow furrowed. "Is that safe?"
"I need to know whether her techniques might actually help trauma survivors instead of just managing symptoms."
Rowan set his mug down. "Miles, last night I held a dying witness while he choked on his own blood. Today you want to meet with someone who might be behind it all."
"But what if she's legitimate?" Defensive agitation drove my questions. "What if her protocols could have saved Iris, could save Mrs. Kim, and could prevent what happened to Patricia's son?"
"What if it's a trap designed to eliminate the troublesome therapist asking inconvenient questions?"
His logic was sound, but it crashed against the growing conviction that traditional therapy was failing my clients at catastrophic rates.
"I'll be careful," I said.
Rowan laughed, sharp and humorless. "Careful. Right." He stood abruptly, stool scraping against Matthew's floor. "Careful worked so well for Rook."
He walked to the tall windows overlooking the canal, shoulders tense. Morning mist clung to the industrial landscape beyond.
"I can't lose anyone else, Miles." His voice was barely audible. "I can't watch another person I care about disappear because I wasn't smart enough, fast enough, or paranoid enough to keep them safe."
I stepped up behind him, not quite touching, close enough to feel his body heat through his rumpled shirt.
"You won't lose me."
"You don't know that." He turned to face me with naked fear in his eyes. "None of us knows that."
I touched his cheek with my fingertips. "Two hours. Harborview Medical Center, full institutional oversight. I'll have my phone, check-in protocols with Dorian, and enough paranoia to make Marcus proud."
Rowan searched my face, looking for cracks in my resolve. He found none because I'd practiced hiding them.
"Text me every thirty minutes," he said finally. "Miss one check-in and I'm coming after you with your entire extended family and their weapons."
"Deal."
He kissed me then, desperate and clinging, like he was trying to memorize the taste of my mouth.
"I love you," he whispered. "Don't make me have to live with that being past tense."
After he disappeared into the guest room to shower, I pulled out my phone and opened Harrow's latest message. The authentication files she'd sent looked legitimate—peer-reviewed research, institutional affiliations, and testimonials from colleagues I respected.
My phone buzzed with a check-in reminder from Harborview. Six hours until I discovered whether Dr. Celeste Harrow represented salvation or damnation.
Either way, there was no backing down now.
***
Matthew stood at the stove stirring while the aroma of garlic and herbs curled around him. He still wore his EMT uniform from his morning shift. The Seattle Fire Department patches on his sleeves were slightly wrinkled, and his radio sat silent on the kitchen counter beside his medical bag.
The guest room door remained closed—Rowan had finally succumbed to exhaustion an hour ago, his body claiming the rest his mind refused to grant.
"You're heading out on your own today," Matthew said without turning around. "Going somewhere you think might be dangerous."
I leaned against the kitchen island, checking my phone. 12:43 PM. Seventy-seven minutes until my meeting with Harrow. "Want me to help with lunch?"
"You have that look Dad used to get." Matthew ladled soup into three bowls, the liquid steaming and flecked with fresh parsley. "Before a particularly bad call."
My stomach clenched. "What look?"
"Like you're calculating whether saving someone else is worth the risk to yourself." He set a bowl before me, the ceramic warm against my palms. "Like you've already decided the answer is yes, but you're hoping someone will talk you out of it so you don't have to carry the responsibility alone."
Matthew had always been one of the most observant of us. He knew how to read life-or-death calculations in the faces of others.
"It's not that dramatic," I lied, taking a spoonful of soup that tasted like comfort and home.
"Bullshit." Matthew settled across from me with his bowl, and Dorian joined us. "I get calls where protocol says wait for fire department backup, but waiting means watching someone bleed out or suffocate or go into cardiac arrest while I fill out forms."
The soup warmed my throat, rich with vegetables Matthew had probably grown himself. "Sometimes you have thirty seconds to decide whether someone else's life is worth your own safety."
Steam rose from our bowls, and I detected thyme in addition to the garlic.
"The difference is," Matthew continued, tearing a piece of bread with methodical precision, "Dad and I trained for those moments. I have protocols, backup procedures, and equipment designed to keep me alive while I save other people. You're walking into something without any of that."
I glanced toward the closed guest room door. "I have backup. I have you. All of you."
Matthew sighed deeply. "That's not the same as tactical training, Miles. We can't protect you if we don't know what you're walking into."
My phone buzzed against the table—another check-in reminder.
"What would you do?" I asked. "If you had a patient dying, and someone offered you an experimental treatment that might save them but could potentially kill you both?"
Matthew was quiet for a moment, considering. "I'd try everything I knew first. Then I'd call for backup. Then, if backup couldn't reach us in time..." He shrugged. "I'd probably try the experimental treatment."
"Even if it meant leaving Dorian behind?"
Dorian looked at me while Matthew answered. "That's the part that would destroy me. Not the dying—the possibility of leaving him to carry my stupid heroic gesture for the rest of his life."
The parallel was unmistakable. Rowan, exhausted and fragile from watching Rook die, terrified of losing someone else he cared about. Me, walking toward potential danger because I couldn't live with the possibility of failing more clients.
"Don't make us bury another McCabe," Matthew said quietly.
I finished the soup in contemplative silence.
When I stood to leave, he wrapped me in a massive hug. "Text updates. Every thirty minutes. And Miles? Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, get out. Don't worry about being polite."
I nodded against his shoulder.
"Communication protocols are set," Dorian said, handing me a small device that looked like a fitness tracker.
"GPS-enabled, panic button disguised as a heart rate monitor.
Press and hold for three seconds, and we'll have your location with an emergency response.
For check-ins, just press the button once. "
I slipped the tracker onto my wrist. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just come home."
Charlie intercepted me at the front door, pressing his golden bulk against my legs. Dogs had better instincts than humans about impending danger, and Charlie's reluctance to let me leave resonated like a prophecy I shouldn't ignore.
"I'll be back," I told him, scratching behind his ears. "Keep an eye on everyone, okay?"
The guest room door remained closed while I gathered my jacket and keys. Rowan needed the rest more than another goodbye that might become an argument.
Two days until Halloween. The late October air bit through my jacket as I walked to my car, carrying the scent of rain and dead leaves. My hybrid started with its usual whispered efficiency. The dashboard clock read 1:23 PM, giving me enough time to reach Harborview without rushing.
Traffic thickened as I approached the medical district, a maze of hospitals and research facilities. Somewhere in that sprawl of glass and concrete, Dr. Celeste Harrow waited to show me either the future of trauma therapy or the sophisticated trap that had destroyed Iris Delacroix.
Harborview's Clinical Research Wing rose from the medical campus like a monument to institutional credibility. Glass and steel, yes, but tempered with warm brick accents and thoughtfully placed greenery that whispered healing instead of screaming corporate.
The lobby hummed with legitimate energy. Researchers in lab coats clutched tablets, discussing protocols in clinical shorthand. ID badges hung from retractable cords, granting access to restricted floors.
"Dr. McCabe?" The receptionist flashed a warm smile. "Dr. Harrow is expecting you. I'll need to see your ID to issue you a visitor's badge."
I handed over my license, watching her cross-reference my name against a computer screen. Everything above board and trackable.