Page 57 of Buried Past

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.

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