Page 37 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

C harlie sprawled belly-up across the throw blanket Ma had knitted us last Christmas, paws twitching as he chased something through whatever dreams medium-sized rescue mutts had.

One ear pointed toward the ceiling, the other flopped sideways—asymmetry that somehow made him more endearing than any purebred I'd ever seen.

Dorian stood at the kitchen counter, coaxing the French press through its ritual.

He wore my old academy sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fabric hanging loose across shoulders that had finally filled out again.

The sight of him in my clothes still set off territorial satisfaction I'd never quite learned to suppress.

A year out from the battle with Magnus Hoyle, I settled into teaching trauma response. It turned out to be my calling. There was something profoundly satisfying about breaking down complex medical decisions into teachable moments.

Dorian operated a security firm operated out of a converted warehouse in Georgetown. He had three carefully vetted employees handling corporate protection with what he called a "trauma-informed approach."

He took no government contracts or questionable clients. It was honest work protecting people who needed it. He came home energized, talking about problems he'd solved rather than violence he'd witnessed.

We'd built routines that felt sustainable. Weekly calls with Ma every Tuesday at seven—she still insisted texting lacked "proper human warmth." Saturday mornings meant pancakes with real maple syrup and slow kisses over coffee. Simple patterns that soon became sacred.

Charlie shifted in his sleep, releasing a contented sigh that rippled through his entire body.

Hard to believe it was the same dog who'd drawn blood from Dorian's thumb during his first week with us, growling at shadows and flinching from raised voices.

Now, he wouldn't sleep at night unless one paw touched Dorian's leg.

Dorian hummed something under his breath—still Beyoncé, always Beyoncé—while steam rose from the French press. I set down my pen and watched him move through our kitchen with easy confidence.

The weight of contentment in my chest was still unfamiliar but welcome, like wearing clothes that fit perfectly after years of settling for whatever was available.

The doorbell's three-note chime cut through our easy quiet.

Charlie's head popped up, ears swiveling toward the sound with the alert attention of a dog who'd learned that visitors usually meant food and attention.

I wasn't expecting anyone. Ma would've called first and announced her arrival with the kind of advance warning that allowed for proper preparation. My brothers would've texted, probably demanding to know if we had beer in the refrigerator.

Dorian set down the French press, wiping his hands on the dish towel tucked into his waistband. "You order anything?"

"Nothing that would show up on a Sunday." I marked my place in the stack of papers with my pen.

When he opened the door, Dorian was silent. That was unusual. He always spoke immediately to visitors, ingrained politeness that had survived years of battling paranoia.

I looked up to see him step to the side of the doorway. Seconds later, I understood what rendered him speechless.

An older woman appeared first—small and dignified, wearing a hand-knitted cardigan the color of autumn leaves. She carried a covered ceramic dish in both hands.

Behind her, Farid stepped into view, grinning like Christmas morning had arrived six weeks early. He wore a Seahawks jersey instead of his usual Manchester United colors, the fabric hanging loose on a frame that had finally filled out again after months of proper nutrition and medical care.

My throat closed completely. The papers slid off my lap, scattering across the floor as I stood.

"I brought my mother to meet my American family," Farid said, his accent thick with emotion. He gestured toward the woman beside him with gentle reverence. "My mother wanted to thank the people who brought her son home."

Farid's mother stepped forward. When she spoke, her English was precise and wielded with careful grace.

"You are Matthew. My son tells me you are good man. Kind man." She paused, searching for words that could bridge the gap between languages and cultures. "He says you held his life in your hands."

My first instinct was to clarify the details of my Farid backstory, but a second thought rendered it irrelevant. Instead, I opened my arms wide.

"You're both home now, finally home."

The hug that followed included all three of us—Farid's familiar warmth, and his mother's strength. Behind us, Charlie padded over to investigate the newcomers, tail wagging.

Dorian appeared at my shoulder, hand settling against the small of my back. He welcomed the pair with his own hug.

Twenty minutes later, our quiet Sunday had transformed into controlled chaos. Dorian had vanished on an emergency grocery run while I worked the phones, summoning the McCabe cavalry. Their first responder instincts engaged whenever food and family were involved.

"About time!" Ma's voice crackled through the speaker, background noise suggesting she was already rattling through cabinets. "I'll bring the lasagna and extra plates. How many are we feeding?"

"Eight, maybe nine if Marcus brings James."

"Of course, he's bringing James. What kind of question is that?" The sound of aluminum foil being unrolled punctuated her words. "Tell that beautiful boy of yours to pick up more wine. Good wine, not the stuff that comes with a screw top."

Michael's response was characteristically direct: "Alex is already in the car. We'll bring salad and whatever else looks useful at the store."

Miles, naturally, claimed credit for the entire gathering: "I'm taking full responsibility for this beautiful moment of family integration. My therapeutic intervention finally bore fruit."

Marcus arrived first, arms loaded with enough fresh bread to feed a small village. James followed, carrying a mixing bowl that smelled like herbs and vinegar. Ma followed ten minutes later, bearing her famous lasagna and enough additional side dishes to suggest she'd been cooking since dawn.

Our dining table—rescued from a Capitol Hill estate sale and refinished in Marcus's garage—groaned under the weight of dishes representing three different culinary traditions.

Ma's lasagna steamed beside Farid's mother's lamb stew, the ceramic dish she'd carried revealing layers of tender meat and unfamiliar spices that made my mouth water from across the room.

James's quinoa salad provided a colorful contrast, while fresh bread and Dorian's wine selection elevated the entire affair beyond simple family dinner into something approaching a feast.

Charlie stationed himself under the table, dark eyes tracking every movement for maximum scrap retrieval. His tail thumped a steady rhythm against my ankle.

Marcus quietly ensured everyone had what they needed, refilling water glasses and redistributing serving spoons with the subtle efficiency that made him the family's unofficial logistics coordinator.

Michael and Alex flanked Farid, explaining their latest case in carefully sanitized terms that protected confidentiality while satisfying his professional curiosity about American law enforcement procedures.

Miles dominated one end of the table, entertaining everyone with impressions of his latest therapy clients, details changed to protect privacy but personalities intact enough to draw genuine laughter.

His gift for finding humanity in psychological complexity never failed to remind me why he'd chosen counseling over the family tradition of running toward physical danger.

Under the table, Dorian reached out for my hand. His thumb brushed across my knuckles..

No one else noticed the connection, absorbed in their own conversations and the serious business of ensuring everyone ate enough to satisfy Ma's standards. But the squeeze of his fingers grounded me in the moment, shared amazement at how our quiet Sunday had turned into beautiful chaos.

"Dorian," Farid's mother called. "My son says you protect people now, like him. Good work. Important work."

"Thank you. It's different from what I used to do. Much better."

The conversation flowed around us, languages mixing as Farid's mother occasionally lapsed into Pashto when English failed to capture the precise shade of meaning she wanted. Farid translated with patient affection, his comfort in both worlds evident in how seamlessly he moved between them.

The gradual exodus began around nine. Everyone yielded to weekday obligations and the comfortable desire for familiar beds.

Ma kissed both our cheeks with the fierce affection of someone who'd claimed territorial rights over our happiness, pressing containers of leftover lasagna into our hands despite our protests about already having enough food to survive until Christmas.

"You boys did good." She reached up and squeezed my shoulder. "Real good."

Farid and his mother were last to leave. Farid's mother held both our faces in her small hands, offering a blessing and gratitude in Pashto that transcended language barriers.

"Visit soon," Farid said, clasping my shoulder with the same fierce grip I remembered from convoy briefings where his calm had anchored all of us. "Mother wants to cook for you properly. Real Afghan feast, not what she could manage in a borrowed kitchen."

The door closed behind them with a soft click. Charlie padded between our legs, belly swollen from strategic scavenging that had yielded impressive results.

Dorian and I took on the clean up tasks in the kitchen. "Your family," he said, drying a wine glass with careful attention to the stem, "they're remarkable. I'm still not entirely convinced this isn't elaborate fiction designed to make me believe functional families actually exist."

"Ma would adopt you officially if she could figure out the paperwork."

He laughed. "And Farid's mother thinks you're the saint who resurrected her son from the dead. Which, technically, isn't entirely inaccurate."

We finished cleanup in comfortable silence. Charlie had migrated to the couch, claiming the exact center position that would require us to arrange ourselves around his considerable bulk.

I settled onto the couch, Dorian claiming the space at the other end with Charlie's head draped across his thigh. .

"One year," I said. "Has it been what you expected?"

"I didn't expect anything. Couldn't afford to. But this?" He gestured toward our living room. "This is more than I knew how to want."

Rain tapped the windows. Charlie snored. Dorian's fingers curled around mine.

The past was buried, love remained, and we were still here.

***

Thank you for reading Buried Past. It is the third book in the First in Line series. If you haven't read them yet, be sure to start the series with the first book, Burn Patterns .