Page 22 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter fourteen

Dorian

I woke just before dawn, lying motionless beside Matthew, listening to what wasn't there.

No footsteps on gravel. No engine vibrations.

No radio chatter filtering through the trees.

After dinner with Ma, we returned to the cabin, hoping our pursuers had stopped by and noted everything temporarily gone.

They wouldn't expect us to return. At least, that was the story we wanted to tell. I knew we weren't really safe anywhere.

Matthew's breathing remained deep and even, with one arm thrown across his eyes. I counted the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, using it to hold myself in the moment instead of spinning through escape scenarios.

After a few more minutes, I slipped from beneath the wool blankets, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. The floorboards creaked. I'd learned the noisiest spots on our first night in the cabin, so I stepped around the worst.

When I reached the kitchen, I lifted the old percolator from its propane burner and filled it with water that ran clear and cold from the well pump. Matthew didn't stir.

While the coffee heated, I looked out the kitchen window and examined the treeline. Douglas firs stood like sentries, branches heavy with moisture.

I saw no signs of surveillance. No equipment glinting between branches.

Too quiet.

Real safety thrived in chaos—traffic noise, neighbors arguing, and dogs barking at delivery trucks. Peaceful places drew attention.

The percolator began its now familiar gurgling, filling the cabin with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. I wrapped my fingers around the ceramic mug Matthew claimed was his favorite—chipped along the rim, Fire Department logo faded after years of use.

Steam rose from the dark surface. I took a sip. It was rich and worth the premium price Marcus must have paid.

When did you last sit still long enough to appreciate good coffee?

It was when I was a summer camp counselor. That version of me had owned a French press and spouted opinions about bean origins. He'd spent Saturday mornings reading newspapers cover to cover and drinking coffee that cost a mint per pound.

That was the last time I was real, and I'd forgotten how.

Matthew made it look easy.

Behind me, the bedroom door creaked open. Matthew emerged wearing jeans and a thermal shirt. His dark hair stuck up, defying every law of physics. He looked rumpled and human.

"Coffee smells incredible." His voice was still rough around the edges from sleep. He moved to the counter beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed when he reached for his mug.

I handed him the percolator. "Your brother stocks the expensive stuff."

"Marcus believes in quality over quantity. Drives James crazy during grocery shopping." Matthew filled his mug. "Sleep okay?"

"Better than I have in months." It was mostly true. The deep ache in my ribs had settled to a manageable throb, though my left shoulder still seized if I moved it wrong.

"Good."

We stood there drinking coffee while the forest dripped around us. It was what normal people did. They woke up in bed together and stumbled to the kitchen while half awake. They built routines with the assumption that tomorrow would arrive on schedule.

I hadn't been a normal person for six years. Two weeks with Matthew wasn't enough to change that.

He refilled his mug. "What's the plan for today?"

The question was simple, but the answers were anything but that. "I don't know. For the first time in eight months, I don't have a plan beyond making it through the next few hours."

Matthew set down his coffee and turned to face me. "How does that feel?"

"Terrifying." I took another sip, using the ritual to buy time while I tried to articulate something I barely understood. "I've been running so long that stopping feels like surrender. Still, staying here with you also feels like the first right thing I've done in years."

The buzzing of Matthew's phone shattered our fragile morning. He glanced at the display. "It's Michael."

I watched him swipe to answer, already reading the micro-expressions on his face. I saw concern, but not panic.

"Hey." Matthew moved toward the living room, phone pressed to his ear. "What's the word?"

I stayed in the kitchen, ostensibly focused on my coffee, but I couldn't ignore Matthew's side of the conversation. His voice dropped to the low register he used for serious discussions.

"Mm-hmm. How long?" A pause. "And they're certain about the source?"

Matthew began pacing, a tight circuit between the couch and the window that faced the access road. His free hand moved as he talked, gestures that helped him think through complex information.

"FBI's aware but staying hands-off?" Another pause, longer this time. "Strategic advantage, okay. I get it."

My coffee had gone lukewarm, but I kept sipping it anyway, using the familiar motion to mask how intently I was listening. Not to Matthew's specific words—those were meant for Michael—but to the rhythm and cadence that told me everything I needed to know about what was happening in Seattle.

His voice stayed level, but his pacing quickened. "Timeline on that window?"

Whatever Michael was telling him wasn't good news wrapped in reassurance. Matthew ran his free hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at new angles.

"Copy that. We'll move within the hour." He paused, glancing toward me. "Yeah, he's right here. No, we're good. See you soon."

The call ended with a soft beep. I set my mug down carefully. "How bad?"

"Mixed bag." Matthew returned to the kitchen. "They are watching my apartment, but it's discreet surveillance. Michael's federal contact has been tracking the same network we're dealing with."

"FBI?"

"Internal Affairs, corruption task force.

They've been building a case against Hoyle for most of the year, but they're staying quiet while they gather evidence.

" Matthew leaned against the counter. "The good news is we're not alone in this.

The bad news is they can't provide direct protection without compromising their investigation. "

I absorbed the information. "Are we officially assets now instead of targets?"

"We're people who happen to possess evidence they need." Matthew's distinction was important—a reminder that federal interest didn't necessarily translate to federal protection. "Michael says there's a window. Maybe twelve hours where we can move relatively safely, but it won't last."

"And after that?"

"After that, Hoyle's people escalate their timeline, or the FBI moves to arrest him, or both." Matthew pushed away from the counter. "Either way, sitting out here alone in the wilderness is probably the most dangerous place we can be."

Inside me, hypervigilance reasserted itself. The brief illusion of safety dissolved like sugar in water.

"Cover's not the same as protection."

"No, but it's better than isolation." Matthew paused in the doorway, looking back at me. "You trust me on this?"

He was asking if I trusted him enough to walk back into the city where professional killers were hunting us, based on nothing more than his family's assurance that they had our backs. "I trust you." I meant what I said.

"Then let's pack up and get moving. Michael says we should go back to my apartment, and there will be agents nearby."

The peaceful morning was over. Time to find out if Matthew's family could deliver on their promises, or if we were walking into a trap wrapped in good intentions.

Either way, we would be together.

Ten minutes later, Matthew emerged from the bedroom carrying our gear, moving with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd packed for deployment more times than he could count. No wasted motion and no backward glances at the bed where we'd spent two nights learning each other's breathing patterns.

"Almost ready?" he asked, shouldering the bag containing everything we'd brought.

"Two minutes."

I walked to the kitchen and opened Marcus's pantry one final time, studying the neat rows of canned goods and bottled water. Enough supplies to survive a siege or natural disaster, organized with the methodical precision of someone who planned for every contingency except the ones that mattered.

He had no weapons cache hidden behind false walls. He didn't disguise emergency communication equipment as household electronics. The cabin contained no hidden tunnels or reinforced escape rooms.

Marcus built his cabin to feel safe, not to be defensible. He'd created something I'd never encountered before—a sanctuary.

"Ready when you are," Matthew called from the living room.

Cold October air hit my face like a slap when we opened the front door. The forest smell was more pungent now—pine resin and damp earth. Winter wasn't far away. I followed Matthew toward his truck, gravel crunching under our boots.

Before climbing into the passenger seat, I stopped and tilted my head back, scanning the canopy above us. Movement between the branches caught my eye.

A red-tailed hawk circled the clearing, gliding on invisible currents, its wings outstretched like a warning or a benediction—I couldn't tell which. It moved with the economy of something that had never questioned its place in the world.

Predator and sentinel, wild and unbothered, it belonged to this place in a way I never had anywhere.

For a moment, I wanted to see it how Marcus probably did—free, fierce, beautiful. But I saw more than that. I saw something watching from above, tracking every twitch in the underbrush.

The hawk's cry pierced the silence, sharp and high.

Ma's voice surfaced in my memory: "You're safe here, honey. You just don't know it yet."

I stood there with the hawk circling overhead like it had the right to witness whatever happened next. And for a breath—just one—I believed her. I believed safety could be a place. That it could circle above you and around you instead of chasing behind you.

Then the hawk banked hard and disappeared beyond the trees.

And the moment passed.