Page 23 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Matthew started the truck. I climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed.

As we pulled away from the cabin, I watched it shrink in the side mirror until the trees swallowed it completely.

The last thirty-six hours compressed into a warm, blended memory—coffee and conversation, family dinner, warm blankets, and the sound of Matthew's heartbeat against my ear.

I faced forward and began scanning the road ahead for threats. My brief experience of normalcy was over.

The first twenty minutes passed in near silence, only the steady hum of tires against asphalt. Two-lane roads curved through stands of Douglas fir, following the natural contours of hillsides that dropped away into valleys I couldn't see from the passenger seat.

When I spotted a blue Ford that might have been following us, Matthew took an unexpected right turn into a residential neighborhood, circling two blocks before rejoining the main route. "Clear?" he asked.

I rechecked the mirror—different cars now, regular spacing. "Clean." I glanced at Matthew. "That dinner affected me more than I expected."

"In what way?"

"Your family treated me like I was actually there. Not like a problem to solve or a threat to manage. Just... there. Part of the conversation."

"Because you were… there"

"I haven't belonged anywhere for ages." It was a straightforward confession. "Every identity I've worn and every place I've stayed has been temporary."

Matthew's right hand moved from the steering wheel to rest against my knee, thumb brushing the worn denim. "Ma claimed you the moment you walked through that door. That's how she operates—sees someone her son cares about and adds them to the family roster."

A half-smile appeared on my face. "Miles asked about my damage like it was a job interview question."

"Because in Miles's world, everyone has damage. The interesting part is how you handle it." Matthew's thumb traced a small circle against my leg. "You handled it like someone who belongs at that table."

The road began its descent toward civilization—traffic lights in the distance, strip malls, and gas stations announcing the edge of suburban sprawl. The forest fell away behind us, replaced by chain restaurants and storage facilities.

"I sat there listening to you all argue about Marcus's emergency preparedness obsession and Alex's latest coding project, and I forgot I was supposed to be dead for about ten minutes." I turned to look at Matthew's profile. "Never happened before."

"And last night?"

"Last night I wanted to stay. Not just until the heat died down or the operation concluded. I wanted to stay because I belonged there." My honesty startled me. "It's not what people like me get to want."

Matthew's hand tightened. "People like you?"

"People who've done what I've done." I watched traffic thicken as we approached a major intersection. "I've lost the right to everyday things like family dinners, inside jokes, and someone's mother worrying about whether they're eating enough vegetables."

"Ma doesn't see it that way."

"Ma doesn't know what I've done."

"Ma knows exactly what she needs to know." Matthew slowed for a red light. "She knows you're important to me, and she knows you're in trouble. She knows you need somewhere safe to land while you figure out what comes next."

"I'm not sure I know how to stay anywhere long enough to belong."

Matthew's hand moved from my knee to cover my fingers where they'd clenched against my leg. "Then maybe it's time to learn."

He offered hope. For the first time in years, it was stronger than my fear.

Traffic density increased as strip malls gave way to residential streets lined with identical ranch houses and manicured lawns. Soccer fields appeared between developments, dotted with tiny figures chasing balls.

Then I saw it.

Black sedan, three cars back, maintaining perfect spacing in the right lane. Too clean and too anonymous.

"Matthew—"

"I see it."

The sedan held position for another half-mile, neither gaining nor falling back—professional execution by someone who'd done it enough times to make it look natural.

Matthew's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Could be a coincidence," "Could be."

The sedan took the next exit, disappearing behind a Walmart sign and leaving only regular traffic in its wake. I watched a pickup hauling lawn mowers and a Honda Civic with university stickers covering the rear window.

Still, we'd both seen it.

Or had we? The human brain excelled at finding patterns where none existed. Maybe I'd imagined the perfect spacing. Perhaps it had been three random cars, including one sedan driven by someone heading to a perfectly innocent morning appointment.

"It's everywhere," I whispered.

Matthew glanced at me. "What's everywhere?"

"The watching. Government, Hoyle's people, FBI—doesn't matter who. They're all looking for us now." The words came faster, paranoia finding its rhythm. "Michael's federal contact knows we exist. That means paperwork, databases, and digital footprints. We're bait."

Matthew's right hand left the steering wheel again, reaching for my knee. I flinched away from the contact. He coasted to a stop at a red light.

"Hey. Look at me."

I forced myself to meet his eyes. They were brown and calm and completely unafraid.

"We're going to be okay."

I heard Ma in my head again: "You're safe here, honey. You just don't know it yet."

She was wrong. Safety was an illusion maintained by people who'd never learned to spot the predators circling outside their peripheral vision. Her dinner table felt safe because she'd never been forced to calculate firing angles from the kitchen doorway.

Matthew's family was walking into a firefight believing they were hosting a family reunion. And I was the one who'd brought the violence to their door.

"We need to call this off," I said. "Michael's FBI contact, all of it. We need to disappear before we get your family killed."

"Too late for that." Matthew's voice was firm and final. "The moment I chose to help you, we were all in this. Running now means they'll eliminate us separately instead of giving us a chance to fight back together. Michael is right about that."

The highway ahead stretched toward Seattle's skyline, skyscrapers rising from Elliott Bay like monuments to power and commerce. Somewhere in that sprawling grid, federal agents and private mercenaries were maneuvering around objectives where my survival was secondary to their larger goals.

We drove toward the city in silence, while I tried not to calculate how many ways this could end with the people I'd grown to care about bleeding out on sidewalks.

Matthew sat beside me, left hand resting on the steering wheel while his right drummed against his thigh.

I spoke up again. "I know they're hunting us."

Something in my voice must have changed because Matthew's drumming fingers went still. He silently pulled over to the side of the road.

"I know there are people with resources and training and institutional backing who want me dead. Getting involved with me is probably your most dangerous decision ever." I shifted in my seat, angling toward him. "But right now, I'm choosing you over survival instinct."

The words were both a confession and a promise.

Matthew turned to look at me, and I reached across the center console and touched his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of stubble under my palm.

"Dorian—"

I leaned over and kissed him.

His breath caught against my lips before he responded, mouth warm and slightly coffee-bitter.

His left hand came up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through the short hair above my collar and thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind my ear.

The contact steadied me, interrupting the paranoid spiral that had been building since we'd left the cabin.

The kiss deepened. I forgot about surveillance and federal assets and how this could all end badly. There was only Matthew's mouth against mine and the choice I was making to stay instead of run, to trust instead of hide, and to want something more than mere survival.

We broke apart, and Matthew put the truck back in gear. It carried us toward whatever Michael had planned. As I stared at Matthew's profile, I knew I was engaged in something worth fighting for.