23. Miles
Chapter twenty-three
Miles
S eattle's United States Courthouse smelled of furniture wax and varnish. Rowan and I sat in the gallery, the heat of his body steadying me on the hard wooden bench. Patricia Hendricks stood at the defendant's table, wrists bound in cuffs, the nickel gleaming against the navy of her blazer.
The judge delivered a verdict: guilty of obstruction, conspiracy, and accessory. Eighteen months. His gavel cracked once, sharp as bone.
For a moment, Patricia held very still. Then her eyes lifted, searching, and landed on me. She offered a faint smile.
When the marshals led her toward the side door, her shoulders dropped just enough to appear human again. She mouthed two words— thank you —before the door closed behind her.
Around us, the gallery dissolved into motion: chairs scraping, pens capping, and reporters gathering fragments of the story. Rowan and I stayed seated in the fading noise, the two of us absorbing the silence left in Patricia's wake.
"She could've run," I said at last. "After Rook died, she could've erased everything and disappeared."
Rowan turned his hand over in mine. "But she didn't."
We rose together and followed the slow tide toward the doors. By the time we pushed outside, microphones crowded close, and cameras washed my vision in a harsh white glare.
"Dr. McCabe—your thoughts on the sentence?"
"Will you testify before Congress about systematic medical abuse?"
"Do you consider this justice?"
The last question stopped me cold. Justice. Eighteen months for a woman who'd enabled torture while trying to protect the man she loved. David still couldn't sleep through the night. Iris was still dead. How do you weigh love against complicity?
"No comment today," Rowan said, wedging his body between the swarm and me. He guided me through the crush toward the parking garage.
I didn't have much choice about the second question. Congressional hearings were already scheduled. They wanted me in Washington, under oath, explaining how sophisticated psychological manipulation worked.
Thinking about it made my hands tremble.
"You don't have to," Rowan said three days later as we sat in my apartment, staring at the congressional subpoena.
It was on official letterhead from the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions. I was to speak about "systematic vulnerabilities in medical research oversight" and "therapeutic authority exploitation in clinical settings."
On camera, I would have to explain how I'd willingly given myself up for torture.
"Don't I?" I asked. "Patricia sacrificed her freedom to expose the network. The least I can do is explain how it operated."
Rowan settled into the chair across from me, studying my face. "Miles, you don't owe them another voyage back through your trauma. The evidence speaks for itself."
"Ledgers and receipts don't explain the psychology." I touched the subpoena's thick paper. "They need to understand how predators like Harrow identify and exploit vulnerabilities. How they use therapeutic authority to manipulate trust."
"And you're the only person who can explain that?"
"I'm the only person who survived it intact enough to remember. Harrow's other victims can't testify. Some are dead. Others are too damaged. I'm functional enough to sit in front of cameras and describe what happened in clinical terms."
Rowan was quiet momentarily. "What scares you most about testifying?"
It was a therapeutic question, and it cut straight to the heart of it. "That I'll sound like I'm making excuses when they ask why I fell for her manipulation. I worry that I won't have an answer that makes sense to people who've never experienced systematic gaslighting."
Rowan reached out for me, weaving his fingers together with mine. "What would you tell a client who was preparing to testify about their trauma?"
My clinical training kicked in. "That their job isn't to be perfect. Speaking their truth is enough, even if their voice shakes."
"Smart therapist."
"Occasionally." I turned my hand over in his, palm to palm. "Will you come with me?"
"Try to keep me away."
Washington, D.C., in November was like Seattle with worse coffee and higher stakes. Our hotel room overlooked the Capitol building, a massive dome white against the gray sky. I'd spent two days preparing testimony, reducing my experiences to bullet points and numbered paragraphs.
The night before the hearing, I couldn't eat. Room service sat untouched while I paced between the bed and window, reviewing notes I'd already memorized.
"Miles." Rowan caught my arm as I passed. "Sit down. You're making me seasick."
I perched on the bed's edge, leg bouncing. "What if I can't explain how she broke down my defenses? What if they think I'm weak for falling for her manipulation?"
"Hey." Rowan's hand cupped my face. "Tomorrow you'll help Congress understand how medical abuse operates. Tonight, you're just Miles."
Later that night, lying in the dark beside him, I couldn't sleep. The hearing would change everything. After I testified, every potential client who Googled my name would find footage of me describing pharmaceutical manipulation and psychological torture.
How do you rebuild a therapeutic practice when everyone knows how you broke?
The Senate hearing room was intimidating—soaring ceilings, cameras positioned to catch every facial expression, and a horseshoe of senators elevated above the witness table like judges at a trial.
I sat facing them, acutely aware of Rowan in the gallery behind me, close enough for moral support but too far away to help when my voice faltered.
"Dr. McCabe," Senator Hess began, "Thank you for appearing before this committee. Please state your credentials for the record."
I repeated my credentials, and I'd anticipated the first request.
"Dr. McCabe, please describe your initial contact with Dr. Celeste Harrow."
I straightened in my chair. "Dr. Harrow contacted me by phone while I was with my family. She claimed to have developed revolutionary trauma treatment protocols and expressed interest in professional collaboration."
"Did this contact seem unusual?"
"Yes and no. Professional networking isn't uncommon in our field, but the timing felt strategic. She contacted me during a crisis—the same day Patricia Hendricks was arrested for obstruction of justice."
Senator Isaac leaned forward. "And you agreed to meet despite this timing?"
As expected, I had to explain how Harrow could lead me into her web so easily. I dreaded the necessity of explaining terror in bureaucratic language.
"The manipulation was sophisticated. Dr. Harrow used standard therapeutic techniques as weapons for psychological—."
Senator Minton interrupted. "Can you be more specific?"
I glanced toward the gallery, finding Rowan's steady gaze. "She corrupted the five-four-three-two-one grounding technique—a standard intervention for anxiety and trauma responses. Instead of helping me describe safe surroundings, she forced me to inventory my imprisonment."
Several senators shifted in their seats. Senator Hess's expression was grim.
"How were you able to resist these techniques?"
"Professional training, and the memory of family, anchored me.
" I straightened. "My therapeutic education taught me to recognize manipulation, even when experiencing it firsthand.
And memories of my family—particularly something my mother told me when I was twelve—provided psychological grounding that the pharmaceuticals couldn't reach. "
"What did your mother tell you?"
Surprisingly, I smiled. "That hurt is part of loving, and someone has to witness it when it gets too big to carry alone. That's what therapy is—not eliminating pain, but sitting with it."
The room fell silent except for cameras whirring and pens scratching against notepads.
Senator Hess leaned forward. "Dr. McCabe, how would you recommend preventing similar systematic abuse?"
"Enhanced oversight of experimental protocols. Mandatory verification of institutional review board approvals. Federal protection for whistleblowers who report suspicious research activities."
"And for trauma survivors who may have been victimized?"
"Specialized treatment from therapists trained to recognize and address systematic psychological manipulation. Recovery requires understanding that the victim's trust wasn't misplaced—it was expertly exploited."
Several questions followed, but none surprised me. Finally, Senator Hess nodded slowly. "Dr. McCabe, thank you for your courage in testifying today."
The gavel fell, but the cameras kept rolling. It was done. I'd explained psychological torture to politicians in clinical terms, maintained professional composure, and provided policy recommendations.
Now I had to live with being the therapist whose trauma was public record.
Our hotel lobby buzzed with reporters and camera crews. Rowan guided me toward the elevators.
"How do you feel?" he asked once we were safely enclosed in our room.
I sank into the desk chair. "Like I performed my own psychological autopsy on national television."
"Regrets?"
"No."
Rowan knelt beside my chair, hands settling on my knees. "It matters. You made it impossible for them to dismiss systematic abuse as isolated incidents."
"And made it impossible for me to practice therapy anonymously ever again." I laughed. "Every potential client will know exactly how to break me down. They'll find footage of me describing my psychological vulnerabilities in clinical detail."
"Or they'll see someone who survived systematic manipulation and came out strong enough to expose it publicly."
"Maybe." I leaned forward. "I want to go home."
"Tonight?"
"Right now. I want to be somewhere that smells like coffee instead of political ambition. Somewhere, the only cameras are security feeds nobody watches."
Rowan smiled. "I'll change our flights."