Page 20 of Buried Too Deep

He’d barely been holding it together and she’d misinterpreted his intensity.

Best fix that right now.

“Miss Winslow,” Phin said quietly. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you earlier.”

She turned to meet his gaze. “Then why did you?”

Phin swallowed. Her eyes were the color of brandy, intelligent and piercing. “I have PTSD. I’d just been released from the police interrogation room and I wasn’t doing very well at that moment.”

Cora’s gaze softened. “Accepted. I’m sorry I snapped at you. Thank you for keeping me from falling into the street. It seems like we both had shitty mornings. Why were you in an interrogation room?”

“Because he found Joy first,” Burke answered. “And some of us jumped to a very wrong conclusion. I’m so sorry, Phin.”

Cora flashed Burke a shocked glance. “You thought he did it?”

“No,” Burke said quickly, then winced. “Maybe for a second. I wasn’t sure what was happening.”

“I’d never hurt Joy,” Phin said. “Never.”

“Me either.” Cora’s gaze focused behind them. “The others are here. Should we get this over with?”

“I like that idea.” Burke got out and went to close the gate behind Antoine’s car, leaving the two of them alone.

“What’s her name?” Cora asked, looking at his dog.

“SodaPop. I tried to shorten it to Pop, because that’s the truly correct word for a carbonated beverage, but she only answers to SodaPop.”

She chuckled, a rich sound that he wanted to hear again. “You sound like you’re from the Midwest.”

“Cincinnati. So are my friends, Delores and Stone. Delores trained SodaPop for me. She’s my service dog.”

“I saw her vest. I’m sorry that I talked to her when she was working.”

Phin’s respect for her grew. “No worries. She got away from me to run to you. She hasn’t done that before. I’ve only had her for six weeks, but usually she sticks to me like glue.”

Cora smiled at his dog and Phin barely managed to keep from sucking in a breath. She was a very pretty woman, but her smile made her light up like the sun.

“She might have smelled my dog. Either way, I’m glad she ran to me,” she said, then sobered. “I wanted to talk to Mr. Broussard, so this worked out. Should we go talk to him now?”

“We should.” Phin got out of the car and opened Cora’s door. “Burke’s gone around to unlock the side door for us,” he explained, offering his hand.

She took it, sliding out of the SUV, wincing when her feet hit the pavement.

“Are you all right?” Phin asked.

“Feet are sore, that’s all. I ran quite a ways this morning.”

“Which is part of the story that I hope you’ll share,” Antoine said, coming up behind them.

“Yes,” Cora said simply.

Phin realized that he was still holding her hand. He dropped it, feeling his cheeks heat. He needed to get his head on straight. He needed to stop staring at Cora Winslow.

Burke met them inside the door and led them to his living room, a mishmash of styles from high Victorian to a 1990s duct-taped BarcaLounger to the modern, fully equipped kitchen. The kitchen was Phin’s handiwork and he was proud of how it gleamed.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Burke said. “And then we can talk.” He offered Cora a chair—without duct tape—and she sank into it, the lines of pain around her mouth easing as she rested her feet.

Phin sat on a prim settee from the 1880s that was surprisingly comfortable. SodaPop lay at his feet as Phin went back to staring at Cora Winslow.

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