Page 35 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter twenty-three

Matthew

The refrigerator's rattle carried through the thin walls, joined by the barely audible sound of the television. I found him on the couch, back rigid, hands clasped between his knees.

The TV screen flickered with silent footage—federal buildings, courthouse steps, men in expensive suits led away in handcuffs. Breaking News banners crawled across the bottom of the screen.

"How long have you been up?"

He gestured toward the television without turning around. "Long enough."

I settled into my reading chair, the leather exhaling under my weight.

Whatever happened overnight and drew him from bed before dawn was playing out in real time on the morning news.

Federal operations. The kind of coordinated arrests that meant months of preparation and sealed indictments finally seeing daylight.

Onscreen, the broadcast switched between file photos. First was Hoyle's face centered among a constellation of co-conspirators. Some looked familiar from the intelligence files Dorian had shown me weeks ago.

Then the grid dissolved.

Dorian's face filled the screen.

Not recent. I suspected it was at least a four or five-year-old shot. He was clean-shaven, with shorter hair and a neutral expression. The caption beneath read: Sources confirm whistleblower known internally as M. Raines believed to be alive .

Dorian tensed. I wanted to reach for him and offer some physical comfort, but he was in a volatile mood. It might be safest to hold back.

M. Raines. He'd explained that was his Budapest cover name.

I moved to the kitchen, giving Dorian space while I processed what I'd seen. It was all legalistic. No raid or tactical teams. No dramatic showdown with bullets and federal marshals kicking down doors at dawn.

I started coffee, letting the familiar routine—water, beans, the electronic beep of our new machine coming to life—create a soundtrack of ordinary life against the backdrop of images of federal arrests and courthouse steps.

When I returned with two mugs, Dorian still hadn't moved. The photograph of him had disappeared from the screen, replaced by footage of Hoyle escorted through an underground parking garage.

I set Dorian's coffee on the side table and settled back into my chair.

The news cycle moved on—weather, traffic, and advertisements for breakfast cereal.

They'd condensed the end of our nightmare into fourteen minutes of coverage, sandwiched between commercials for luxury sedans and weekend sales events.

Dorian finally spoke. "I thought it would feel like something. Like a release."

I examined his profile—the sharp angles of his face thrown into relief by the television's flickering light. "What does it feel like instead?"

"Empty. Like someone stole half of what I was carrying on my shoulders."

It was hard to hear his confession. I'd assumed vindication would bring relief, satisfaction, and an emotional crescendo that matched the scale of what we'd endured.

Dorian lifted his mug. "I keep replaying it. The scene in my head. How it was supposed to end."

I sipped and listened.

"Flashbangs. Boots on the ground. Justice with teeth. I wanted to see them dragged out in chains. Wanted cameras capturing every moment of their humiliation."

The violent imagery didn't surprise me—I'd harbored similar fantasies during the worst moments of our time in hiding. I wanted to see our hunters become the hunted, and watch them experience the same fear and helplessness they'd inflicted on others.

"I expected something too. Something like the cannons in the 1812 Overture ."

"But it didn't come." Dorian set his coffee down harder than necessary, liquid sloshing against the rim. "Just quiet headlines, sealed indictments, and a whisper that I exist."

I sighed heavily. "We were ready for a war, but it ended in a press release."

He stared at me. "They deserve worse."

"They do, but we didn't."

My observation was a powerful one. We'd armed ourselves with weapons and contingency plans, prepared for blood and violence and the kind of climactic showdown that would have left bodies scattered across warehouse floors.

Instead, justice had arrived through proper channels—federal prosecutors, sealed indictments, and the bureaucratic machinery of law enforcement doing what it was supposed to do.

"The real win isn't spilling more blood. It's surviving in a world free from them."

We'd survived. Not only the bullets and warehouses and federal manhunts, but the thing that had tried to hollow us out from the inside. We'd made it through with our capacity for love intact.

Maybe it was a victory we hadn't expected—not the dramatic vindication of action movies, but the quiet triumph of choosing peace over revenge.

An hour passed while Dorian watched the television silently with the sound turned down. Finally, he spoke again. "I should've stayed dead."

I winced and crossed to the couch without a second thought, cradling him in my arms. His breathing was shallow and rapid.

I whispered, "We've already survived the worst."

He lifted his head enough to look at me, eyes wide and hollow but still focused. Still present.

"You walked out of hell, Dorian." I kept my voice level.. "This? This is sunlight. It might be scary, but it's still the light."

He nestled his head into my shoulder. "I don't know if I can live like this. Visible. Known. With everyone watching."

He was terrified of being seen by others beyond me. I wove the fingers of my right hand together with his. "You don't have to figure it out today. You've got all the time in the world. One day at a time. Don't run today."

He held on like I was the only solid thing in his world. The rest of the day unfolded in restless fragments. Dorian moved through my apartment like he was searching for something he couldn't name—unable to settle anywhere for more than a few minutes.

I retreated to my laptop, handling the administrative debris of taking an extended leave from work. I emailed Kayla to explain why I'd disappeared from our shift rotation.

Early in the evening, my phone rang. It was Michael.

"Turn on Channel 7. They're running a special report."

I pointed the remote at the television and settled into my chair.

The investigative reporter was someone I didn't recognize—a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and careful diction.

Behind her, graphics displayed organizational charts that reduced years of human suffering to arrows and bullet points.

Dorian had stopped watching hours ago but returned from the kitchen when he heard voices discussing federal cooperation and crucial intelligence.

Twenty minutes later, Michael called again.

I held my hand over the phone and spoke to Dorian. "Investigative reporter from the Post-Intelligencer. She's someone Michael trusts. She's offering a sit-down interview—under your conditions. No ambush questions or surprise angles. You'd have control over what gets published."

"No." His response was automatic, instinctive.

Seconds later, he blinked and asked a question. "Would it help anyone?"

"It's your call," I said carefully. "But it might help you."

"Or destroy me."

"Or set you free."

He stood abruptly, needing movement and space to think. I watched him leave the apartment, heard his footsteps on the stairs, and waited.

When he returned ten minutes later, something had settled in his expression. Not peace exactly, but resolution.

He nodded once.

"Okay, I'll talk to them."

The following morning, I selected clothes for Dorian while he stood in the bathroom, electric razor buzzing against his jaw. "You look like you're preparing for your own execution."

"Feels about right. What's the dress code for voluntary character assassination?"

I appeared in the doorway with the clothes draped over my arm—dark jeans, navy button-down, charcoal sweater that would photograph well under studio lights. Professional but not corporate. Serious but not intimidating.

"You'll look like the respectable citizen who occasionally saves democracy in his spare time."

He gazed at the outfit. "I'll look like I should be explaining why your grandmother's computer runs slow and offering to install antivirus software for a modest fee."

Laughter bubbled up inside me. "Widow's tech support. That is what you'll look like."

"Good thing I'm naturally trustworthy. Essential quality in both tech support and federal whistleblowing."

At exactly 10:30, the station's car arrived. I held Dorian's jacket open for him to slip it on. "You don't have to answer anything that feels wrong."

"I know."

"And you can stop anytime. Walk out if you need to."

"I know that, too."

My hand settled against the small of his back, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "Ready?"

He looked at me one final time, searching my face for something I hoped he found there.

"No, but let's go anyway."

We descended the stairs together, boots echoing off the concrete. At the building's entrance, I paused.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"Better if you don't." His fingers brushed my wrist briefly. "This is something I need to do alone."

The car's rear door opened, revealing glimpses of recording equipment and a woman with silver hair who studied Dorian with professional attention.

He looked back once, and I nodded. Permission. Trust. Whatever passed for a blessing between people who'd learned to love each other in the spaces between catastrophes. He disappeared into the dark interior.

I stood on the sidewalk until the car vanished around the corner, carrying Dorian toward whatever came next. The man who climbed out of that car when he returned might not be the same one who'd climbed in—but he'd still be mine.