24. Epilogue - Rowan
Miles balanced three glass containers against his chest while wrestling our shared calendar off the refrigerator door, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. "Did we commit to bringing dessert or only contributing something edible?"
I watched him from the kitchen island, my hands busy wrapping the lavender shortbread I'd stress-baked the night before. Six months of cohabitation had taught me to read his multitasking moods—this particular brand of organized chaos meant he was excited about something but trying not to show it.
"Ma said bring whatever you feel like making," I said, securing the paper with baker's twine. "Which translates to bring something homemade, or she'll spend the entire meal asking if we're eating properly."
"We are eating properly." Miles set the containers down and adjusted his glasses. "These prove it." He gestured at the stack of Ma's returned Tupperware—evidence of her ongoing campaign to keep us fed.
Our warehouse loft had transformed since Miles moved in. He let his apartment go just after Christmas, and we were celebrating our first spring together.
My sterile efficiency had given way to comfortable clutter. His medical journals sprouted bookmarks and sticky notes, stacked beside my investigative files on the dining table we bought together.
"Ready?" Miles asked, already reaching for his jacket.
I nodded, tucking the shortbread into my messenger bag alongside the bottle of wine we'd debated over at Pike Place Market the day before.
The conversation had lasted twenty minutes and involved Miles explaining why a Chianti would complement Ma's Sunday sauce better than the Pinot Noir I'd initially grabbed.
The drive to Queen Anne took fifteen minutes through neighborhoods that had become familiar territory. Miles handled the conversation while I navigated Sunday traffic, his voice animated as he described Mrs. Akemi's breakthrough in Friday's session.
"She actually laughed," he said, adjusting the heat vent on his side of the car. "Not the bitter kind she's been using as armor, but genuine humor."
"Medical trauma survivor?"
"Yes, complications of a car accident. Surgeon botched the follow-up, hospital administration covered it up, and she spent three years believing her chronic pain was psychosomatic." Miles pulled down the visor mirror to check his hair.
"Corporate fraud consultation for me tomorrow," I said, turning onto Ma's street. "An accounting firm suspects embezzlement but can't prove how the money's disappearing."
"Exciting?"
"Satisfying." I pulled into the spot I'd started thinking of as ours—close enough to the house for easy unloading, and far enough from the driveway to avoid blocking anyone's exit.
"Michael," Miles observed, pointing to the familiar truck parked across the street. "Luna's probably driving everyone insane."
Sure enough, we heard barking before we reached the front porch. Charlie's deeper bass notes harmonized with Luna's higher pitch—a canine welcoming committee.
Miles knocked twice before using his key.
"Miles! Rowan!" Matthew's voice carried from the kitchen. "Thank God. Ma's been asking about you two every ten minutes for the last hour."
Charlie bounded around the corner first, gold fur flying as he skidded across the hardwood to greet us. Luna followed more cautiously.
"Hey, beautiful," Miles said, crouching to scratch behind Charlie's ears while Luna sniffed at my jacket pockets. She'd learned I sometimes carried dog treats—a habit that had earned me approval from the four-legged family members.
"We brought shortbread," I announced to the house in general, knowing the words would carry to the kitchen where Ma would make room for our contribution alongside whatever she'd already prepared.
"And wine," Miles added. "Plus your containers from last week."
"Good boys," came Ma's voice from deeper in the house.
We hung our jackets on the hooks beside the door. Six months had taught us the rhythms of arrival and departure.
The kitchen erupted with greetings as we crossed the threshold into Ma's domain.
Steam rose from three different pots on the stove while the oven timer counted down the final minutes on what smelled like her famous garlic bread.
Matthew stood at the island, methodically chopping vegetables while Alex leaned against the counter, wine glass in hand, providing side commentary on Michael's attempt to explain football strategy to Dorian.
"—and the Seahawks lost Wilson," Michael said, gesturing with a wooden spoon. "That changes everything."
Michael smiled when he spotted us. "There they are. Rowan, tell Dorian I'm right about the Hawks' passing game."
"I don't know enough about football to have an opinion worth defending," I said, accepting Alex's hug while Miles deposited the returned containers on the counter beside the sink.
"Smart man," Alex said. "Michael's been holding forth on this topic for twenty minutes. We're all starting to develop sympathetic brain injuries."
"Very funny." Michael rolled his eyes but grinned. "Rowan, you brought something that smells incredible."
I pulled the wrapped shortbread from my bag. "Lavender shortbread. Stress-baking experiment from last night."
"Stress about what?" Ma asked. She wore the apron Marcus had given her last Christmas—navy blue with "World's Most Dangerous Cook" embroidered in silver thread.
"Corporate fraud case tomorrow. Pre-interview nerves." I unwrapped the paper carefully, revealing the pale golden squares I'd cut with geometric precision.
Ma gestured toward the salad ingredients scattered across the cutting board. "Tomatoes need dicing. Small enough that Matthew won't pick them out."
"Matthew picks out tomatoes?" I asked, accepting the knife Miles handed me without being asked.
"Only when they're too big," Matthew said defensively. "It's a texture thing, not a flavor thing."
"It's a control thing," Alex corrected. "Matthew likes his food organized into distinct categories instead of mixed together."
"Says the man who eats cereal with a fork," Matthew shot back.
"Rowan, taste this." Ma appeared at my elbow with a wooden spoon loaded with marinara sauce. "Tell me if it needs more oregano."
I accepted the spoon. Ma didn't offer tastes to outsiders—it was a family privilege.
"Perfect," I said, meaning it. "Maybe a pinch more black pepper, but the oregano balance is right."
"See?" Ma turned to address the room. "Rowan has a palate. Unlike certain sons who think everything needs hot sauce."
"Hot sauce improves most foods," Michael protested. "It's not my fault you all have sensitive taste buds."
"Michael puts hot sauce on ice cream," Miles told me, his voice mock-serious. "We've been trying to stage an intervention for years."
Miles caught my eye across the kitchen island, his smile soft with affection and amusement.
"Wine?" Alex asked, holding up the bottle we'd brought.
"Please," I said. The Chianti was what Miles predicted—rich enough to complement Ma's sauce without overpowering the other flavors.
"To Sunday dinners," Alex said, raising his glass.
"To family," Ma corrected.
We clinked glasses across the crowded kitchen. Through the window, I spotted Marcus's car pulling into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the rain-slicked pavement.
The front door opened, releasing a burst of cooler air and the sound of Marcus's voice calling hello to the house in general.
Within minutes, the kitchen reached capacity—nine adults moving around each other with the practiced efficiency of people who'd learned to share space without stepping on toes.
Ma's dining table could seat six comfortably or eight with strategic elbow management. Since I arrived, they managed to squeeze in one more.
Conversation flowed naturally around the table, weaving in our various areas of expertise. The family treated each person's professional knowledge as a resource for collective problem-solving.
"Miles, how's the new practice developing?" Ma asked. "Are you getting the referrals you hoped for?"
"More than I expected," Miles said. "Apparently, testifying before Congress builds credibility with medical trauma survivors. Dr. Humphries from Johns Hopkins has been sending referrals, and three other trauma specialists have asked about consultation on their difficult cases."
Dinner dissolved into the familiar choreography of McCabe family cleanup. Miles and I fell into the rhythm we'd developed at home, moving around each other without negotiation or collision.
"Leftovers?" Miles asked, already wrapping the remaining garlic bread in foil while I scraped plates into the disposal.
"Always," Ma said, emerging from the pantry with an armload of containers. "James, take some sauce home. Alex, you're getting salad whether you want it or not. Michael—"
"I know, I know," Michael called from the living room where he was helping Dorian organize wine glasses. "Enough pasta to feed Luna for a week."
"Luna doesn't eat pasta," Alex pointed out.
"Luna will eat anything that falls on the floor," Michael corrected. "Including pasta."
The drive home unfolded in comfortable quiet. Miles handled the radio while I navigated streets slick with spring rain, our hands touching across the center console during red lights.
"Your stress-baking is becoming legendary," Miles said, adjusting the volume on some indie station he'd programmed into my car's presets. "Ma asked if you'd consider making those shortbread cookies for Marcus's birthday next month."
"I'll add it to my calendar." The words came easily. Next month. Future plans assumed we'd still be here and still be us.
We pulled into the Georgetown warehouse district as the streetlights flickered on, casting amber pools across wet pavement. Our building stood solid against the evening sky—red brick weathered but enduring, windows glowing with the warm light we'd left on in the kitchen.
"Home," Miles said softly.
Home.
It wasn't the physical space—though I'd grown to love our converted loft with its exposed beams and Miles's organized chaos claiming half the dining table. It was the certainty that someone would notice if I didn't come back. The knowledge that my absence would create a hole.
We climbed the stairs to our front door. Miles reached for his keys while I balanced the containers of leftovers Ma had insisted we take.
"I should prep for tomorrow's consultation," I said, setting the food on the kitchen counter beside the French press. "Corporate fraud cases require—"
"Rowan—it's Sunday night. The case will keep until tomorrow."
He was right, of course. Miles moved through our kitchen efficiently, transferring Ma's sauce to the refrigerator while I wrapped the remaining shortbread.
"What are you thinking about?" Miles asked, appearing beside me with two glasses of water.
"Patricia Hendricks got out last week—early release." I accepted the glass. "I saw the news update in my feed yesterday."
Miles nodded. We'd followed the legal aftermath closely—watching as federal prosecutors dismantled what remained of Meridian's network while Patricia served her reduced sentence.
"She called yesterday," I continued. "Left a voicemail thanking us for understanding her impossible position. For understanding why she couldn't expose Meridian while Rook was still alive."
"Heavy call to return."
"I haven't called back yet." I set my water glass on the counter. "Part of me wonders whether she'd have made different choices if she'd trusted us earlier. If David might have—"
"Stop." Miles grabbed my shoulder. "Patricia made the best decisions she could with the information she had. Like we did. Like Rook did."
My guilt had softened over the past six months, tempered by satisfaction with the justice we'd helped deliver.
"The podcast is getting requests," I said. "Other survivors are reaching out with their own stories about corporate medical fraud. Patterns I'm starting to recognize."
Miles smiled. "Thinking about expanding the scope?"
"Maybe. Would you be interested in consulting? Your expertise in trauma therapy would be invaluable for interviews with medical survivors."
"Send me the case summaries. It could be fun to be a partner on some new cases."
Rain drummed against our windows as we moved through the evening routine we'd developed—Miles organizing his files for Monday's appointments while I updated my investigation notes, both of us working at opposite ends of the dining table that had become command central for our respective careers.
Later, in the darkness of our bedroom, Miles's breathing settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. I lay awake, listening to the familiar sounds of our neighborhood: freight trains in the distance and the occasional car navigating wet streets.
I thought about Iris Delacroix, whose desperate voicemail had started everything. About Rook dying with poison in his veins, finally free to tell the truth. And about Patricia, released from prison to rebuild a life hollowed out by impossible choices.
Borrowed Pain. That would be the title of my new podcast. It came to me while watching Miles testify before Congress. Healing came through finding someone to help you carry your burden—borrow it for a little while.
Miles stirred beside me, his hand finding mine beneath the covers without fully waking.
Six months ago, I'd believed love was something you only earned through perfection or a random accident. The McCabe family had taught me otherwise.
Love was something you were claimed into.
And once claimed, you could stay as long as you wanted.
I closed my eyes and let sleep come, secure in the knowledge that morning would bring coffee shared across the kitchen island, ahead of a day's worth of work that mattered.
Home.
***
Thank you for reading Borrowed Pain , the fourth book in the First In Line series.