Page 146 of Buried Too Deep

Phin pulled out his phone and texted Antoine one-handed. He wasn’t going to let go of Cora, no matter how hard she squeezed his hand.

When he’d sent the text, he turned to find Cora crying silently. “Hey,” he murmured. “What’s this?”

“If my father and Medford were killed by the same person and if my father was killed trying to stop child abusers and if Patrick killed him…does that mean that Patrick is a pedophile, too? Just like Medford Hughes?”

Phin sighed. “Let’s see what Antoine finds out before you go there, okay?”

“No, you don’t understand. I just remembered that Patrick was part of a mentoring program,” she said hoarsely. “Teenagers from the community. For just a year, but what if he…? What if he hurt those kids, too?” She shook her head. “I can’t even think about it.”

Val turned in her seat to stare at Cora. “Did you say a mentoring program? Was it called Invest in Kidz, with a Z?”

Cora nodded. “Yes. I wanted to participate, too, but I was in college and taking care of John Robert, so I didn’t have time. It only lasted a year or so. Why?”

“Because Vincent Ray was one of the teenagers in that program,” Val said grimly. “That could have been where he and Patrick met.”

Phin hadn’t thought Cora could look more devastated, but right now she did.

Phin, on the other hand, was furious. “Vincent Ray was going to set the house on fire. Sure, there were sprinklers, but what if they hadn’t worked? Patrick could have killed Cora.”

He hoped he didn’t cross paths with Patrick Napier anytime soon. He might kill the man himself.

Cora wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, but the tears kept coming. “I hate this, Phin. All of it. It can’t be true.”

He unbuckled his seat belt so that he could slide closer to Cora, then wrapped his arms around her, his heart aching for her. “We’ll figure this out.” He kissed the top of her head. “And then it will be over.”

He hoped he hadn’t just told a lie.

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 11:15 P.M.

Alan’s driver pulled his town car into his garage. “You okay back there, boss?” Drake asked, his voice gruff.

“I will be, Drake. Thank you.”

“If that Hughes fella wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”

That was the reaction Alan had hoped for—the reaction he’d hoped Burke Broussard and his people would have as well. He’d been stunned to see them walk through Sara Morton’s door. He’d only gone to visit her to ensure her life insurance proceeds would be donated to the church, which she’d already decided to do.

Then Broussard had walked in the door and Alan had panicked. Not that the visitors would have noticed. He was very good at covering up his true feelings. But he had panicked.

He’d come up with the idea of accusing Medford of pedophilia on the fly. He hoped it had worked, that Broussard would be so enraged that he’d focus his effort on trying to find a crime that did not exist.

Because Medford Hughes was no pedophile. Never had been. He’d been far too busy taking care of his wife and doing Alan’s bidding to have any other nefarious hobbies.

If Broussard took the bait, he’d be spinning his wheels trying to find Medford’s laptop, which Alan had crushed into bits and thrown into a dumpster near Xavier University.

And if Cora Winslow connected the dots, she might believe her father had been involved in a similar crime—murdered by someone targeting pedophiles. That would cause her to back off on her quest for the truth.

It had been the best he’d been able to do under the gun, as it were. It might just work. Either way, they couldn’t prove he’d lied. Just that he was mistaken.

“I know how you feel, Drake. Some days the ministry is much more difficult than others. I’m going to bed. You can go on home.”

“Sleep well, boss,” Drake said.

Alan was certain he would not. “You too.”

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

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