CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Miles sat across from Sarah Kim at the same bar where they had met a week earlier.
The place was busy for a Thursday night, filled with the after-work crowd unwinding over drinks and appetizers.
The noise level provided a comfortable buffer, enough that their conversation wouldn't carry to nearby tables.
Miles wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that this bar—this little table in the corner—was starting to feel very familiar to him.
He and Vic had only been back in DC for two days, and he was already back here… back here, with Sarah.
Sarah had already ordered when Miles arrived. She nursed a gin and tonic while Miles worked on his second bourbon. The alcohol helped take the edge off, though he was being careful not to drink too much. Just enough to quiet the constant noise in his head.
"So, I hear Victoria Ashford-Walters sent flowers to the field office," Sarah said. "Three massive arrangements. One for you, one for Vic, and one for me, even though I wasn't in NYC."
“She did. Did you not see yours yet?”
“No. I was over at the Pentagon, helping with something. Haven’t been by my office all day.”
"It was a lovely spread," Miles said. “Maybe a bit excessive, though.”
"That's gratitude from someone who knows she would be dead otherwise.
" Sarah took a sip of her drink. "She also made a substantial donation to the FBI's victim assistance fund.
Hayes was practically glowing when he told me about it.
You know, Miles…with each one of these creeps you put away, you come out looking more and more golden. "
Miles rotated his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "Yeah, well, I don't feel golden.”
“The way I hear it, neither does David Hartley,” Sarah said. “Did you get the report about his hospital stay?”
“I did. His surgery went well. They had to put pins in his arm but he'll recover full function eventually. He's in a holding cell now, awaiting arraignment. His lawyer is already talking about police brutality."
"Of course, he is."
"Hayes shut that down pretty fast, though,” Miles said. “He’s going to argue that I was defending myself against an armed assailant who was actively trying to inject me with a paralytic agent. Which is true."
Of course, he knew that the official story didn't include the part where he kept pulling on Hartley's arm after the threat was neutralized. The fact that there was something dark and furious inside of him had wanted to cause more pain wouldn’t make it into any official reports.
They sat in silence for a moment. Sarah ordered another drink and Miles did the same. The conversation felt stilted, like they were both avoiding something.
"This is awkward," Sarah finally said.
"Yeah."
"Why is it awkward? We've worked together for weeks now. We’ve been out for drinks…what, almost ten times now?"
Miles considered the question. "Maybe it’s because last time we were here, I was trying to convince you I was fine. And now we both know I'm not."
Sarah turned on her stool to face him more directly. "You want to talk about what happened at the museum?"
"Not really."
"But you probably should."
Miles drank the rest of his bourbon and signaled the bartender for another. "What do you want me to say? That I lost control? That I broke a man's arm and would have kept going if Vic hadn't stopped me? We both know that already."
"I want you to tell me what you're thinking about it. Not what you wrote in the report."
Miles looked at her. Sarah's expression was open, genuinely concerned. There was no judgment there, no assessment of his fitness for duty. Just someone trying to understand.
"I'm scared," Miles said quietly. "Of my own capacity for violence.
Of how little control I have over it anymore.
When I was holding Hartley's arm, when I felt it break, there was this part of me that was glad.
That wanted to hurt him more. And I don't know where that came from or how to make it stop.
" He sighed, shrugged, and took a drink.
Sarah nodded slowly. "Kane escaping really did a number on you."
"It's not just that. It's everything. Every case, every disciple, every victim.
It all just builds up and I don't know how to process it.
And now Kane is out there, probably planning his next move and laughing his ass off that he was able to escape so easily.
And I'm sitting here realizing I might be becoming as dangerous as the people I'm supposed to catch. "
"You're not becoming like them," Sarah said firmly. "You're traumatized. There's a difference. Come on, Miles. You can’t be serious, comparing yourself to these disciples."
"I appreciate that, but from where I'm sitting, the line feels pretty thin."
The bartender delivered their next round of drinks.
Miles took a sip and felt the warmth spread through his chest. Dutch courage, his father used to call it.
Liquid bravery for conversations you didn't want to have.
He also made a rule for himself; this had to be his last one.
He was starting to feel a little buzzed.
"Hayes and Vic think I should step back from the Elementalist cases," Miles said. "Focus on other work for a month or so. Give myself space to heal…or something like that."
"I know. Hayes told me his thoughts on it."
"What do you think?"
Sarah was quiet for a moment, considering her answer. "I think they're wrong. At least partially. But if it comes back to me that I said that, I’ll deny it,” she added with a cute smirk.
Miles looked at her in surprise.
"Don't get me wrong," Sarah continued. "You absolutely need help. You need to keep going to therapy, you need support, you need to address what's happening inside your head. But stepping away from these cases? I don't think that's the answer."
"Why not?"
"Because without you, we wouldn't have caught as many disciples as quickly as we did. Your understanding of Kane, your ability to think like he does, your instincts about how these killers operate, that's invaluable. We need that. The victims need that."
"But if I'm barely holding it together..."
"Then you put in the work," Sarah said. "You keep going to therapy. You lean on the people who care about you. You do whatever it takes to stay healthy enough to do this job. But walking away entirely? That just means more people die while other agents try to catch up to where you already are."
Miles absorbed her words. It was the first time anyone had suggested he might be doing the right thing by staying involved, even if his methods were becoming questionable.
"You really think I can handle this?" he asked.
"I think you're barely handling it now. But I also think you have the tools to get better if you actually use them. That means being honest with Dr. Mitchell. That means accepting help when people offer it. That means admitting when you're struggling instead of pretending everything is fine."
"I'm not very good at those things."
"Then learn. Because the alternative is what happened at the museum, except next time maybe Vic isn't there to pull you off. And then we're all screwed."
Miles finished his drink and set the glass down carefully. Sarah was right. He had been treating therapy like a box to check, something to prove to Hayes that he was functional. But he hadn't actually been doing the work. Hadn't been honest about how bad things had gotten.
"I'll try," he said finally. "I can't promise it'll work, but I'll try."
"That's all anyone can ask."
They paid their tabs and stood to leave.
His knees felt a bit wobbly. Maybe he was a bit more buzzed than he’d originally assumed.
The bar had gotten more crowded while they talked, bodies pressed together in the limited space.
Sarah grabbed her coat from the back of her stool and Miles helped her into it, a gesture that felt oddly intimate.
Outside, the February air was cold enough to make Miles's breath visible. They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, neither of them quite ready to part ways. The streetlights cast orange pools across the pavement and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed.
"Thank you," Miles said. "For being honest with me. For not treating me like I'm broken."
"You're not broken. You're hurt. There's a difference."
They were standing close now, closer than Miles had realized. Sarah was looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. The moment stretched between them, charged with something unspoken. Her eyes met his and a slow, blooming warmth spread through him.
Sarah took a small step closer. Miles felt himself leaning down, drawn by an impulse he didn't fully understand. Her face tilted up toward his.
At the last second, Miles pulled back.
"I should go," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
Sarah stepped away, her expression carefully neutral. "Yeah. Me, too."
"Sarah, I..."
"It's fine, Miles. Don't worry about it." She adjusted her coat and offered him a small smile. "See you at the office?"
"Yeah. Have a good night."
She walked away toward the subway entrance, and Miles watched her go. When she disappeared down the stairs, he turned and headed in the opposite direction toward his apartment.
The walk took fifteen minutes. Miles used the time to think about what Sarah had said, about her belief that he could keep doing this work if he was willing to put in the effort.
It was simultaneously encouraging and terrifying.
The idea that he might be able to find his way back from whatever edge he was teetering on.
His apartment building came into view and Miles climbed the front steps. He toyed with the idea of breaking into his own scotch and just finishing the night off on a dull note—to get drunk and sleep hard. But then, as he came to is apartment, he saw something was sitting by his door on the landing.
It was a FedEx package, medium-sized, with his name and address printed on the label.
Miles picked it up and saw that there was no return address. He unlocked his door and carried the package inside, setting it on the kitchen counter. For a moment he just stared at it, feeling an inexplicable sense of unease.
He found scissors in his junk drawer and cut through the tape.
Inside was a plain cardboard box packed with bubble wrap.
Miles pulled away the layers until he found what was hidden at the center: a handwritten note on expensive stationery.
The handwriting was elegant, almost calligraphic.
Miles sensed his hands starting to shake even before he even began reading.
Dear Agent Sterling,
Congratulations on another successful capture.
David proved less resilient than I had hoped, but his devotion was admirable, nonetheless.
I understand he came quite close to completing his work before you intervened.
So close. One wonders what might have happened if you had arrived just a few minutes later.
I have been following your progress with great interest. Seven disciples captured in eight attempts, and all eight stopped.
Quite an impressive record. You possess a rare gift for understanding the minds of those who see the world differently than most. Perhaps because you are not so different yourself.
I wonder, though, how much of yourself you might lose in the process of pursuing us. How many pieces of Miles Sterling will be left when this is finished? You seemed rather upset at the museum. I worry about you, truly.
Until we meet again.
G.K.
Miles read the note three times, his hands beginning to shake. Kane knew about the museum. Knew about what had happened with Hartley. Which meant he was watching, somehow. Monitoring the news, or worse, monitoring Miles directly.
The idea that Kane had been observing him, had witnessed his loss of control and found it amusing, made Miles feel sick. The taunting tone of the letter, the false concern, the suggestion that Miles was losing himself in the pursuit. It was all calculated to get under his skin.
And it was working.
Miles looked around his apartment as if Kane might be standing there in the shadows. The space suddenly felt less secure, less private. If Kane could have this delivered to his door, what else could he do? When had he done it? And had he done it himself or sent someone?
He carried the note to his door and locked the deadbolt. Then he engaged the chain lock for good measure. The note was still in his hand, the elegant handwriting mocking him.
Miles walked to his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
He should call Hayes. He knew he should report this immediately.
But the thought of explaining it, of admitting that Kane was now communicating with him directly, felt overwhelming.
And honestly, he needed to process it and what it might mean before he told anyone else.
Miles set the note on his nightstand and lay back on the bed, fully clothed.
The ceiling above him was familiar territory, every crack and imperfection memorized from countless sleepless nights.
He stared at it now, wondering how Kane had gotten his home address, wondering what the man was planning next.
But mostly, he wondered if Kane was right. He wondered if there would be anything left of Miles Sterling when this was all over.