Page 79 of Buried Too Deep

And who the hell was Alice VanPatten? He’d searched online while Cora had been inside the VanPatten home, finding that Alice was an interior designer and wife to Richard. But there was no meaningful connection to Cora. Not yet, anyway.

He wondered if his grandfather knew.

He wondered what he’d be revealing if he asked, although it didn’t really matter. Sage would have the upper hand in any conversation with his grandfather from here on out.

At least I didn’t intend to shoot Joy Thomas. It really had been an accident.

His grandfather, however, had fully intended to kill Medford Hughes. He’d gone into his secret safe in the study, taken two guns, and had returned hours later with only one gun.

The news of Medford’s death had already hit the news by then. Dead by a bullet to the head. It wasn’t hard to add two and two and get four. But Sage had already figured it out by the time the news had broken.

He’d followed Burke Broussard and two of his men—and a dog—from Cora Winslow’s house to Medford’s. He’d parked a block away and used his long-range microphone to eavesdrop.

And had been stunned to learn that Medford was dead in his car. The guns his grandfather had removed from his safe had then made sense.

Mind. Blown. No pun intended.

That Alan had killed Medford Hughes had been a shock. His grandfather had not, to Sage’s knowledge, ever killed someone. Like, ever.

Medford must have figured out that the laptops were stolen. Well, Medford had to have known that all the laptops that he was asked to break into were stolen. He just didn’t know where all the prior laptops had come from.

Sage thought about the Broussard laptops with a smirk. More likely than not, Medford had been tipped off by the Broussard logo on the laptop’s lid. His grandfather might not have been able to see that level of detail, but Medford would have.

Sage hadn’t been one hundred percent sure that Alan had pulled the trigger, until he’d learned that the stolen Broussard laptops had been found in the back seat of Medford’s car.

That tidbit had come courtesy of the cops, who were talking about the crime scene loudly enough to wake the dead. Sage had barely needed the long-range microphone to hear every word they said.

Medford was supposed to look like he’d shot himself in the head, but the cops didn’t think that was the case. Medford’s wife was dead, too. Alan had killed them both.

That was harsh.

The wife was an addict—drugs and gambling—but she hadn’t deserved to die. Unless Medford had told her what he’d found, which was possible.

Sage still didn’t know what his grandfather was up to, but he was going to find out. He dialed Alan’s cell phone, smirking when the man answered.

“What?” Alan’s voice was flat and angry.

Or maybe guilty. Sage guessed it depended on how many people his grandfather had killed over the years. What if Medford hadn’t been Alan’s first kill?

He wondered if Cora’s father had been. But he still didn’t know why.

Why was important.

“Who is Alice VanPatten?”

“Who?” Alan asked impatiently. “Don’t waste my time, Sage.”

Such a pompous bastard. “If I thought I was wasting your time, I wouldn’t have called, Grandfather. A simple answer would be nice. Do you know who Alice VanPatten is with relation to Cora Winslow?”

There was a moment of silence, a long, long moment. “What are you talking about?” Alan asked, his voice now quiet.

And maybe a little scared.

The scared part pleased Sage greatly.

“Alice VanPatten lives in Baton Rouge with her husband. Cora Winslow just left here with her bodyguards. Broussard’s people. They stayed about a half hour, and Cora looked shaken when she came out.”

Another beat of silence, then all hell broke loose. “You’ve been following Cora Winslow?” his grandfather thundered. “I never directed you to do that.”

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