Page 59 of Buried Past

I'd signed the refusal form with handwriting that looked like it belonged to someone else, letters shaky and uncertain.

Now, Kayla was driving us back through Capitol Hill's maze of one-way streets while I pressed my forehead against the passenger window. My attention kept drifting to the rearview mirror.

A dark sedan had followed us since we'd left Mrs. Lemon's building. Not aggressive—just there. Maintaining the same three-car distance whether we hit green lights or got stuck behind a bus.

"Is that the same car from earlier?" Kayla's voice was casual, but her grip on the steering wheel had tightened.

I adjusted my mirror. "Might be."

"You make a new friend?"

"Not the kind I want."

Kayla didn't probe further, but I watched her posture shift—spine straightening, shoulders squaring. Three years of partnership had taught her to distinguish between my genuine concerns and paranoia.

We turned onto Broadway, the sedan flowing with traffic like it belonged there. Street performers had claimed the corner near the QFC, a guitarist with donations scattered in his case while pedestrians dropped coins between songs.

My phone buzzed.

Michael's name on the display. He didn't call during my shifts unless something was wrong.

The sedan continued maintaining its careful distance as we approached the station. In the side mirror, I saw the driver's silhouette—motionless, patient.

My phone buzzed again. Insistent.

Kayla parked and glanced at the display. "Answer it."

I stepped away from the rig toward the rear of the ambulance bay where conversations couldn't be overheard. Kayla remained by the vehicle, watching but keeping her distance.

"Danny Ho just called." Michael's voice cut straight to the point. "He confirmed it all. Your case is the missing piece they need to bring down Hoyle. Dorian is the ideal witness."

Cold spread through my chest. The ambulance bay seemed to tilt sideways. "Does the Bureau know where Hoyle is?"

"Not yet. But someone might."

As Michael continued talking, I turned toward the street and froze. The sedan was there, parked across from the station now, engine off, windows dark.

"—Danny thinks less than a day remains before Hoyle starts tying up loose ends. If they think Dorian's a risk, they won't just come for him. They'll look at everyone he's touched—people close to him, people close to you."

My stomach flipped. Michael confirmed it wasn't only about Dorian anymore. If Hoyle wanted to send a message, he'd make it personal. He'd go after the people who mattered most—my brothers, my mother, and maybe even Kayla.

"Matthew, you need to get to Dorian. Now."

The sedan's occupants were invisible behind tinted glass, but I felt their attention like weight against my chest. How long had they been watching? How much did they know?

"Matthew, you still there?"

I ended the call and pocketed the phone. Across the pavement, Kayla was studying my face with the intensity she usually reserved for trauma assessments.

"Gotta go," I called to her, already moving toward my truck.

"Matthew, wait—" She intercepted me at the bay exit, positioning herself between me and the parking lot. "What's going on?"

I debated lying. Didn't. "I think someone I care about is in trouble. And I think I'm already too late."

She nodded once. "You call me if you need backup. I mean it."

"I know." I gave her a faint smile, then pushed past her.

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