Page 54 of Buried Past

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?"

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