Page 20 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter thirteen

Matthew

T he Highway Park & Ride stretched out like a graveyard for eighteen-wheelers, massive rigs lined up in neat rows under buzzing sodium lights.

Marcus had positioned his SUV between two freight haulers—a Peterbilt with Montana plates and a Kenworth that looked like it had seen every mile between here and Texas.

I pulled my truck into the designated slot three spaces down. Through the windshield, I watched everything unfold exactly as Marcus had planned it an hour earlier.

His pickup sat empty now. James and Dorian transferred gear from the truck bed into canvas bags that could have held camping equipment or groceries.

We didn't exchange any words, and we didn't linger out in the open. I only heard the soft thud of truck doors closing and the crunch of gravel under boots as we converged on the SUV.

Marcus had tucked the key fob under the rear floor mat, wrapped in a sandwich wrapper that still smelled like turkey and mustard. It was his version of operational security—hide the critical stuff somewhere off your body and inside the mundane.

The whole transfer took ninety seconds. Anyone watching would assume ordinary people executing their Sunday plans.

Dorian slid into the back seat beside me, his shoulder brushing mine—contact that had gone from foreign to familiar in the ten days since he'd shown up bleeding on my doorstep. James claimed shotgun, already reaching for the dashboard vents, redirecting airflow like he was adjusting a microscope.

"Clean exits?" Marcus asked, methodically adjusting his mirrors.

"There was nothing in my wake," I confirmed.

Marcus pushed a button, and the SUV came to life with a whisper. He pulled out of the lot, taking a circuitous route through three different parking lots in the first mile. At the final one, he had us switch vehicles again. We all folded ourselves into James's Honda Civic.

Dorian's hand touched mine on the seat between us, fingers weaving together in a gesture of affection.

"ETA ten minutes." Marcus glanced at the rearview mirror.

The neighborhood where I grew up appeared ahead of us—tree-lined streets where the biggest excitement was usually our neighbors' ongoing wars with raccoons getting into their garbage.

They were the streets where Michael and I had learned to ride bikes, and Marcus taught Miles how to throw a football.

I spotted a car that stood out in the familiar landscape. "Black sedan. Two houses down from the house. Same one that was at my apartment Wednesday."

The vehicle sat between Mrs. Garcia's little Toyota and Mr. Peterson's pickup with the fishing boat trailer, but everything about it screamed outsider.

Fresh wash, perfect alignment, and windows tinted to government specifications.

It was professional surveillance pretending to be a visiting relative.

Dorian's fingers tightened around mine. His breathing stayed even, and his expression remained relaxed.

James leaned forward. "Marcus, that vehicle doesn't exactly blend with the neighborhood's... demographic profile."

"Doesn't belong to anyone on this street." Marcus slowed his approach. "I've known every car on this block since I was sixteen."

They'd found the McCabe family home. Not only my address, they'd tracked me to the place where Ma still kept our childhood photos on the mantelpiece and our height marks penciled on the kitchen doorframe.

Dusk was falling, and a porch light illuminated the front steps at our house.

Dad used to sit there with his coffee on summer mornings before his shift, reading the paper and waving to neighbors heading to work.

Ma's garden gnome stood guard in a flower bed she'd been tending since before I was born.

Thirty years of Sunday dinners, and now professional killers were documenting who came to eat Ma's lasagna.

"Tactical adjustment?" James asked.

Marcus shook his head, turning into the driveway. "We proceed. Normal family dinner. Let them record us arguing about whether Miles will ever bring home someone Ma approves of."

Gravel crunched under the tires. Marcus killed the engine, and silence wrapped around us.

Marcus reported his judgment of the situation. "Surveillance responds to behavior modification. Our best countermeasure is to be so unremarkable they question their intelligence."

Through the windshield, I watched the front door crack open—Ma checking for us as she'd done every Sunday since we were old enough to drive ourselves. Her face appeared briefly, then vanished.

Dorian released my hand as we exited the small car and briefly stretched. "You ready for this?"

His dark eyes met mine, and I glimpsed something vulnerable in them. "Your family shouldn't become assets in someone else's war."

"No," I agreed, stepping onto the wooden porch that had supported four generations of McCabes. "But they shouldn't be kept ignorant while danger camps in their neighborhood either."

The smell of oregano and garlic bread leaked under the door, mixing with distant laughter and what sounded like Alex patiently explaining technology. At the same time, Michael pretended not to understand—Sunday evening chaos, McCabe family edition.

Dorian straightened his shoulders. "Let's meet the woman who raised you."

Before I could knock, the door flew open. Ma stood in the entrance wearing her flour-stained apron and immediately focused on the unfamiliar face.

"There he is!" She pointed directly at Dorian, completely ignoring her own sons. "You're the one I haven't hugged yet."

Ma pulled Dorian into an embrace. I watched him stiffen initially—shoulders locked, hands hovering uncertainly—and then he melted into it.

"Mrs. McCabe. Thank you for including me."

"Ma," she corrected, already steering him through the doorway. "And you're family now, so drop the formalities. You're safe here, honey. You just don't know it yet."

The house smelled like home—spices from whatever sauce had been simmering since morning. I listened for the thumping sounds made by the ancient refrigerator Dad had refused to replace.

I caught Dorian's eyes examining the entry hall as he smiled and responded to Ma's rapid-fire questions about food allergies and dietary restrictions.

Ma explained the situation. "Matthew never brings anyone home. The last time was that EMT trainee, and he ran when Michael started questioning his student loans."

I sighed. "That was years ago, Ma."

Alex appeared beside me, pressing a cold beer into my hand while studying Dorian with the focused attention he usually reserved for debugging code. From the kitchen, I heard Miles banging cabinet doors and saying something about mastering breadsticks.

"Miles!" Ma called. "Come meet Dorian before you burn down my kitchen!"

"Send him into the kitchen!" Miles shouted back. "I'm demonstrating physics! Dorian, do you like dinner theater?"

Michael stood at the dining room sideboard, pouring wine with mechanical precision while he glued his eyes to Dorian. It wasn't a hostile stare, but it was the sustained attention of someone trained to spot threats.

James and Marcus had disappeared into the kitchen, probably helping Ma coordinate the logistics of feeding eight people in a dining room built for six. Marcus moved chairs around with his usual efficiency.

Alex addressed Dorian. "Sunday dinners require strategy. Ma commands, Miles entertains, Marcus handles logistics, Michael maintains security—"

"And Matthew shows up and eats whatever gets put in front of him," I finished.

Alex's expression turned serious. "And I usually try to talk people out of whatever dangerous thing they're planning." He glanced at me. "Which seems relevant tonight."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "My role?"

"Survive." Alex grinned. "That's it."

Ma reappeared carrying a platter that could have fed a small army—lasagna surrounded by garlic breadsticks that filled the air with the smell of butter and herbs. James followed with salad while Marcus brought wine bottles tucked under both arms.

"Sit, everyone!" Ma pointed at the dining room table that groaned under mismatched plates and serving dishes. "Dorian, here beside Matthew. James, your vegetarian masterpiece is right there—chickpea casserole, made it special."

"For the vegetarian prince." Miles emerged from the kitchen with two more baskets of breadsticks.

Ma began loading Dorian's plate before he could protest, piling on lasagna and a generous scoop of James's casserole. "You're too thin. We're fixing that tonight."

I attempted to defend him. "Ma—"

"Don't Ma me. Look at him—when's the last time he had a proper meal?" She stared at Dorian. "You do eat actual food? Not one of those men who thinks coffee counts as breakfast?"

"I eat. This is... incredible. Thank you."

Miles dropped into the chair across from him. "So, Dorian. What's your damage? Trust issues? Workaholism? Secret addiction to reality TV?"

Marcus elbowed his youngest brother as he sat between him and James.

"What? I'm establishing baseline personality metrics.

It's called getting to know people." Miles broke a breadstick in half, using it to gesture.

"Matthew's got this whole savior complex thing.

Classic middle-child syndrome, except he's not actually middle—only 3 of 4—which adds this fascinating layer of—"

Michael interrupted. "Miles, maybe you should let the man eat before you psychoanalyze him."

Dorian was already laughing, and he responded to the query. "Workaholism, definitely workaholism. Plus trust issues and an unhealthy relationship with caffeine."

"Excellent!" Miles beamed. "Self-awareness is the first step. Or so I tell my clients before charging them two hundred dollars to talk about their feelings."

Ma settled at the head of the table. "Grace," she announced, and conversation stopped as eight pairs of hands reached out to form the familiar circle.