Page 86 of Buried Past

"Turn on Channel 7. They're running a special report."

I pointed the remote at the television and settled into my chair. The investigative reporter was someone I didn't recognize—a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and careful diction. Behind her, graphics displayed organizational charts that reduced years of human suffering to arrows and bullet points.

Dorian had stopped watching hours ago but returned from the kitchen when he heard voices discussing federal cooperation and crucial intelligence.

Twenty minutes later, Michael called again.

I held my hand over the phone and spoke to Dorian. "Investigative reporter from thePost-Intelligencer.She's someone Michael trusts. She's offering a sit-down interview—under your conditions. No ambush questions or surprise angles. You'd have control over what gets published."

"No." His response was automatic, instinctive.

Seconds later, he blinked and asked a question. "Would it help anyone?"

"It's your call," I said carefully. "But it might help you."

"Or destroy me."

"Or set you free."

He stood abruptly, needing movement and space to think. I watched him leave the apartment, heard his footsteps on the stairs, and waited.

When he returned ten minutes later, something had settled in his expression. Not peace exactly, but resolution.

He nodded once.

"Okay, I'll talk to them."

The following morning, I selected clothes for Dorian while he stood in the bathroom, electric razor buzzing against his jaw. "You look like you're preparing for your own execution."

"Feels about right. What's the dress code for voluntary character assassination?"

I appeared in the doorway with the clothes draped over my arm—dark jeans, navy button-down, charcoal sweater that would photograph well under studio lights. Professional but not corporate. Serious but not intimidating.

"You'll look like the respectable citizen who occasionally saves democracy in his spare time."

He gazed at the outfit. "I'll look like I should be explaining why your grandmother's computer runs slow and offering to install antivirus software for a modest fee."

Laughter bubbled up inside me. "Widow's tech support. That is what you'll look like."

"Good thing I'm naturally trustworthy. Essential quality in both tech support and federal whistleblowing."

At exactly 10:30, the station's car arrived. I held Dorian's jacket open for him to slip it on. "You don't have to answer anything that feels wrong."

"I know."

"And you can stop anytime. Walk out if you need to."

"I know that, too."

My hand settled against the small of his back, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "Ready?"

He looked at me one final time, searching my face for something I hoped he found there.

"No, but let's go anyway."

We descended the stairs together, boots echoing off the concrete. At the building's entrance, I paused.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

---