Page 13 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter nine

Matthew

S team rose from the sink where I rinsed the final plate, watching soap suds spiral down the drain. Two of everything again—plates, mugs, forks bearing traces of scrambled eggs. Evidence of a shared breakfast that still felt foreign after a week.

I dried my hands on the dish towel, hanging it precisely on its hook. Dorian's presence had woven itself into my routines. He draped his borrowed jeans over the bathroom door. In the medicine cabinet, his toothbrush—the spare I'd dug from a forgotten drawer—sat beside mine like it belonged there.

As I passed the bedroom doorway, I heard his rhythmic breathing, deep and even for once. He was sleeping now, real sleep, not like in Kabul. Back then, Farid always said people like him didn't sleep—they hovered. Dorian's earlier fitful attempts at rest had reminded me of that.

I moved through my usual security checks, fingers testing each deadbolt, while I scanned the window latches. My routine had changed. My checks were more deliberate since I was checking for two.

A knock shattered my routine patterns—three sharp raps, pause, two more. It was my brother Michael's signature. He didn't arrive with doorbell politeness or tentative tapping. He knocked like he was serving a warrant.

My spine went rigid. He didn't make social calls at nine-thirty on a Wednesday morning. He'd relocated to Oregon with his partner, Alex. Whatever brought him to Seattle had to be taken seriously.

I glanced toward the bedroom. Dorian's jacket lay on the back of my chair in the living room. His boots sat beside the door. I had too many breadcrumbs to sweep away, and Michael's cop brain would register every sign before I could manufacture explanations.

The knocking came again, more insistent.

No time.

I answered the door.

"Matthew." Michael filled the doorframe like he owned it, shoulders squared beneath a red windbreaker. He didn't wait for an invitation or welcome, stepping inside with the casual authority of someone who'd been barging into my space since we were kids.

His eyes swept the apartment in one fluid motion. It was a detective's assessment disguised as brotherly concern. I tracked his gaze as he processed signs that I wasn't alone: throw pillows knocked askew on the couch, and my bedroom door barely cracked open instead of standing wide.

"Smells like a restaurant in here." Michael shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook in the entryway without asking. "Ginger and sesame oil. You been cooking for someone, or did you finally decide to treat yourself like a human being?"

It was a casual question, but I detected an edge—the verbal equivalent of frisking for a concealed weapon. I leaned against the kitchen counter with practiced nonchalance.

"Made too much stir-fry last night. Figured I'd use up the leftovers before they went bad." It was a lie, and I regretted it immediately. Michael had an internal polygraph with 100% accuracy.

He nodded slowly, moving deeper into the apartment. His fingers trailed along surfaces as he walked—table edge, chair back, bookshelf—gathering information through touch. He approached the coffee table.

"Two mugs."

"I was thirsty."

Michael lifted the second mug, bringing it close to his face. His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled, checking for scents.

"Still warm. Ten minutes, maybe less. You didn't make two mugs of tea for yourself."

He straightened, arms crossing. "So, unless you've acquired a new invisible roommate, you're lying to your favorite brother.

"I'm lying to my second-favorite brother," I corrected. "Marcus still holds the top spot."

The joke fell flat. Michael's stance shifted—weight rolled forward on the balls of his feet, hands falling to his sides where they could move fast if needed. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable, like watching a switch flip from brother to badge.

"Someone staying here?" His voice dropped half an octave, acquiring the flat authority I'd heard him use on suspects who thought they were smarter than the evidence.

I continued to breathe steadily, forcing a sense of calm. "No one official."

Michael's eyes narrowed to slits, his jaw working as he processed my non-answer. "Don't feed me BS, Matthew."

His tone was steely. "You've been off for days. Missing calls. Kayla said she's concerned." He took a step closer, invading my personal space. "Then you skipped Sunday dinner without so much as a text to Ma. You know what that does to her."

Guilt twisted in my stomach. Ma's Sunday dinners weren't optional. Missing one was like skipping Christmas.

"I told you, I got called in—"

"Bullshit." Michael dismissed my explanation. "I checked. No overtime logged for you last Sunday. No emergency calls. Your rig was parked at the station all afternoon while Ma kept checking her phone, wondering if her boy was lying in a ditch somewhere."

I'd hurt her. Worried her. Made her pace the kitchen the way she'd done for months after Dad died, waiting for calls that never came.

"Michael—"

"You're hiding something dangerous." He moved closer than was comfortable. "You're protecting someone, and whoever it is has you spooked enough to lie to family."

My hands clenched involuntarily. Michael had always possessed an unsettling ability to read the undercurrents others missed—body language, vocal patterns, and the micro-expressions that revealed the truth behind careful words.

It made him exceptional when he worked for the Seattle PD, and exhausting as a brother.

He doesn't bluff . When Michael makes a threat, he follows through.

In high school, he'd promised to beat the shit out of Jerry Brandon if the older boy kept hassling me about Dad's death.

Four days later, Jerry showed up with a black eye and a sudden urge to find new targets for his cruelty.

Michael's word was contract law—signed in blood and enforced without mercy.

His voice softened enough to reveal concern. "Talk to me. Whatever this is, we can handle it. But you can't keep to yourself something that's got you this twisted up."

Michael's expression hardened. "Alex knows how to dig up dirt when necessary. He saved all our asses when we battled Project Asphodel. If you're tangled up in something dirty, I'll find the threads."

Michael was right—Alex had access to databases that could unravel Dorian's carefully constructed invisibility in hours. One search query would expose aliases and safehouse locations and maybe even connect him to Hoyle's network.

"Back off." The edge in my voice made Michael's eyebrows rise.

"There it is. You just showed your hand, brother."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." The pace of his words quickened. "You know what I did for a living. I know what it looks like when someone's protecting a threat. I see you glancing toward that bedroom door like you're calculating response times."

My jaw clenched hard enough to make my teeth ache. "Not everything dangerous is a threat. Some people deserve privacy."

"Privacy?" Michael laughed. "Privacy is what you give to neighbors and coworkers. Whatever's behind that door has you ready to throw your brother under a bus."

My composure continued to fracture. Dorian's safety now outweighed keeping peace with Michael.

"So it's a person then? Not a thing you picked up on shift. It's a human being?"

I didn't answer. There was nothing I could say without confirming what he'd already deduced.

Behind the closed bedroom door, I heard the faint creak of floorboards—just once, then silence. Dorian was awake. Listening.

Michael read my silence like a signed confession. His shoulders sagged slightly, the cop mask slipping to reveal the brother underneath—wounded, worried, and angry at being shut out.

He looked older for a second. Not tougher. Not sharper. Just tired. My brother, the one who used to sit on the floor with me after Dad's shifts and explain how the fire truck worked like it was the coolest thing in the world. The one who never let me walk home alone.

"Shit, Matthew. What have you gotten yourself into?"

His eyes glistened, just for a second, and then he blinked it away.

"After Dad, I thought we promised each other. No secrets. Not like this."

He exhaled hard, and his hands unclenched as they fell to his sides with the weight of defeat. "You know I'd take a bullet for you. I've got your six, no matter what stupid decision you make. But Ma? She doesn't deserve to get caught in someone else's crosshairs. Not again."

It was a verbal sucker punch. Not again. Dad's funeral flashed through my memory—Ma standing graveside in her black dress, holding onto Marcus's arm while the honor guard folded the flag. She'd aged a decade in the space between the warehouse collapse and the burial service.

"No one's dragging her into anything. This stays here."

"You'd better be right. If this goes sideways, and whoever you're protecting brings violence to our family, I won't be able to forgive that."

He moved toward the door, knowing he'd lost the battle. For a moment, I thought he might turn around and try one more approach to break through my defenses.

Instead, he paused. "If this blows up, I'll be the one picking up the pieces. Don't make me clean up another Farid."

The door closed with a soft click that echoed through my apartment. Another Farid. Michael knew exactly where to aim when he wanted to draw blood. He'd watched me nurse that guilt for years.

He's not wrong .

Michael read the situation with surgical accuracy. I was protecting someone dangerous whose past could detonate in our faces without warning. Ma could get hurt. My brothers could become collateral damage in a war they never chose to join.

But he's not entirely right either.

Danger and threat weren't synonymous, despite what Michael's training insisted. Violence followed Dorian in his wake, yes, but not by choice. He was debris from someone else's explosion, not the bomb itself.

The bedroom door remained closed, but I knew my walls and doors weren't soundproof. Dorian had heard everything—Michael's accusations, my deflections, and the family loyalty I'd chosen to break rather than betray him.

What was he thinking in there? Was he calculating escape routes and preparing to disappear before my brother could make good on his threats?

I crossed the living room to my chair. The leather exhaled beneath me as I settled into the familiar cushions, my body finding the groove worn by countless nights of solitary television and takeout dinners.

I stared at Dorian's mug—the one with the Fire Department logo that I'd given him without thinking.

I spoke to the empty room. "I'm not backing down. Not this time."

For years, I'd run toward other people's fires—Farid's convoy and strangers' accidents. I'd spent my life stepping into wreckage, trying to patch the broken. But now, I wasn't the medic. I was the protector, the barricade.