22. Rowan #2
She moved sideways, hands raised but eyes calculating. "Agent Andrews, you're making a catastrophic mistake. Dr. McCabe volunteered for extended therapeutic intervention. He signed consent documentation—"
"Under duress," Matthew interrupted, pulling medical supplies from his bag. "Miles, I'm going to check your vitals, okay?"
Miles managed a nod. Matthew wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm while examining the IV line with professional disgust.
"What's in the drip?" Matthew demanded.
Harrow glared. "Therapeutic anxiolytics to reduce resistance patterns that interfere with trauma processing."
"Benzodiazepines and what else?"
"Proprietary pharmaceutical combinations designed to optimize therapeutic receptivity."
"You drugged him into compliance." I stepped closer to Miles's chair, needing to touch him and confirm he was real and breathing.
Miles struggled against the restraints. "Rowan, she's been—" His words slurred together. "—using my techniques against themselves."
"We're getting you out of here," I said, reaching for the restraint buckles.
"Evidence preservation," Andrews said sharply. "Document everything before we move anything."
One of his agents was already photographing the scene—the IV setup and the restraints.
Matthew finished his medical assessment. "Pulse elevated but stable, blood pressure within normal limits considering the chemical intervention. Pupils reactive, speech slurred, but cognitive function appears intact." He looked directly at Miles. "Do you know what day it is?"
"Tuesday." Miles's voice gained strength. "You're Matthew McCabe, my brother who overuses a formal voice." A ghost of his humor flickered through the drug haze.
Matthew nearly smiled. "No benzo dependence on file, no mixed co-ingestants suspected—titrating flumazenil with airway and seizure kit ready. This might make you feel temporarily worse before you feel better."
"Worse than being psychologically dissected by a sadist in a lab coat? Hard to imagine."
Harrow's professional composure shattered completely. "None of you understand what I've accomplished here. I've developed groundbreaking techniques—"
"You've developed techniques that destroy people," I said.
She continued, but I focused on Miles. Harrow's babbling was background noise.
Andrews stepped forward. "Dr. Harrow, you're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and conspiracy to commit fraud." He gestured to his agents. "Read her rights and process her for federal custody."
As they moved Harrow toward the door, she turned back toward Miles with naked venom. "You'll never trust therapeutic relationships again. You'll spend the rest of your career wondering which clients you're harming with inadequate methods."
"Actually," Miles said, "I'll spend the rest of my career understanding that therapeutic authority can be corrupted, but genuine healing still exists."
The restraints finally released with mechanical clicks. Miles's hands shook as he rubbed circulation back into his wrists.
"Dr. Harrow," he called as they led her away, "I hope you find a therapist who can help you process what happened to you. Someone who won't use your trauma against you."
Even after hours of psychological torture, he was offering compassion to his tormentor. That was when I knew, with absolute certainty, that they hadn't broken him.
I finally reached out and touched Miles's shoulder, feeling solid warmth and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
"Hey," I said quietly.
"Hey, yourself." He covered my hand with his, fingers still trembling, but his grip firm. "Took you long enough."
"Traffic was murder."
Miles laughed. It was the most beautiful thing I'd heard in weeks.
"Let's get you upstairs," I said. "Your family's been climbing the walls."
"Ma's here?"
"Ma's here. Along with Marcus, Michael, Alex, and enough federal firepower to flatten a small building." I helped him stand, supporting his weight as the drugs continued working their way out of his system. "They were ready to storm the place with or without official permission."
"Sounds about right." Miles leaned against me, warm and alive. "Rowan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not giving up. For finding the right people to help."
I wrapped my arm around his waist, anchoring him against me. "Thank you for fighting back and surviving."
***
In the hospital room on the seventh floor, Miles sat propped against pillows, color returning to his face as Matthew's pharmaceutical countermeasures worked their way through his system. Ma McCabe had commandeered the visitor's chair closest to the bed. She held Miles's hand between both of hers.
"The IV bruising will fade in a few days," she said, examining the angry purple mark on his arm where Harrow's technicians had inserted their poison. "But you're going to eat actual food for the next week. No arguments."
"Ma, I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're alive and you're yourself, which is more than I dared hope three hours ago." Her maternal authority was apparent. "Fine is what you'll be after proper rest, meals, and plenty of recovery time."
Marcus stood at the foot of the bed. "Federal prosecutors will want a detailed statement. Fortunately, not today. Maybe not this week. Medical recovery takes precedence over legal proceedings."
Michael paced the narrow space between the bed and the window. He'd shed his tactical vest but still moved like someone expecting trouble. "Alex is handling logistics—coordinating with hospital security and managing media inquiries."
"Media inquiries?" Miles asked.
"Harrow's arrest is making news. You're not just a victim, Miles. You're the witness who helped expose systematic criminal activity."
"I don't want to be famous for this," he said quietly.
"You won't be famous," Ma said. "You'll be the person who ensured it couldn't happen to anyone else. There's a difference."
I settled into the chair beside Ma, close enough to touch Miles without crowding the family dynamics. He reached out with his free hand, fingers interlacing with mine.
"Tell me what she did," I said quietly. "Not for evidence or investigation. For me. So I understand what you fought through."
Miles was quiet for a moment, organizing his memories. "She used grounding techniques to increase my vulnerability instead of providing stability."
"She turned your own tools against you."
"Worse. She turned my professional identity against itself." Miles held my hand firmly. "Convinced me that traditional therapy was designed to keep people sick instead of helping them heal. That my inadequate methods had harmed every client I'd tried to help."
Ma's grip tightened on his other hand. "That's not true."
"I know that now. But under the influence of drugs, with sophisticated psychological pressure..." Miles shook his head. "She almost made me believe it. Made me doubt everything about my training and my ability to help people.
"What brought you back?" Marcus asked.
Miles's gaze went distant for a moment, but his voice steadied. "A memory. Not a client. Earlier than that. Dad's funeral. I was twelve, standing in Sacred Heart while Father McKenzie spoke, and Ma squeezed my hand so tight I still remember the marks. I asked her why people have to hurt so much."
He swallowed, eyes shining now with something more than exhaustion. "She told me that hurt is part of loving. Someone has to witness it when it gets too heavy to carry. Not fix it. Not cure it. Sit with it."
His voice strengthened as the memory rooted itself. "That's what I remembered. That's who I am. Not someone who eliminates pain—someone who sits with it."
Silence filled the hospital room. Miles's brothers lowered their heads.
"He's my boy," Ma McCabe whispered.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to reveal Andrews's name appeared on the display.
"Agent Andrews," I answered, putting the call on speaker so the family could hear any updates.
"Mr. Ashcroft, I'm calling with developments regarding Patricia Hendricks. She's requested immediate contact with you."
Miles straightened against his pillows. "What kind of contact?"
"She says she's ready to provide complete evidence about Meridian's operations, but she needs to speak with you first. Says there are personal safeguards she built into the documentation that only she can dismantle."
I glanced around the room at faces reflecting confusion and hope. "Personal safeguards?"
"Patricia Hendricks is being held at the federal detention center. She's cooperating fully but insists that the digital safeguards require specific knowledge she will only share with you. She's requesting a meeting tomorrow morning. Says time is critical."
"Tell her yes," Miles said before I could respond. "Tell her we'll meet with her tomorrow."
"Miles, you need recovery time—"
"I need to know that what happened to me serves some purpose beyond my own trauma." His voice was quietly steely. "If Patricia can help us destroy the entire network, then everything we've been through matters."
Ma nodded. "Then it's decided. Rowan and Miles will be with her tomorrow, and we will prepare for whatever comes next."
Matthew finished organizing his medical supplies. "Miles gets tonight and tomorrow morning for medical recovery. No exceptions."
I squeezed Miles's hand. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we find out whether Patricia can help us finish what Rook started."
"Tomorrow," Miles agreed, eyes already heavy with exhaustion. "But tonight, I just want to be here. Safe."
***
My phone rang at 6:15 AM, dragging me from restless sleep in the hospital chair beside Miles's bed. Andrews's name glowed on the display, and I answered before the second ring could wake the family scattered across visitor chairs.
"Agent Andrews." I kept my voice low, stepping toward the window where downtown Seattle sparkled under morning light.
"Mr. Ashcroft, Patricia Hendricks has made her decision. She's already dismantling the safeguards."