Page 49 of Buried Past

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 onlymyaddress, 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—"

---