Page 112 of Buried Too Deep

The details around the young woman were slightly blurred, but he could still make out a few letters in the sign behind her. He hoped he could figure out who she was and where the photo had been taken.

He snapped a photo of the photograph with his phone. He’d work on deciphering the details later after he was back in his apartment.

He pulled the first folder off the stack and rifled through its contents. He recognized these papers. They were the reports he himself had made on the individuals Alan had him either follow or search their homes.

Those were people who sought to steal from them, to take advantage of Alan’s generosity. Two had wanted to shake Alan down, demanding money for protection.

Nice auditorium you’ve got here. Pretty stained-glass windows. Be a shame if it all burned down.

Sage had found sufficient dirt on them to keep them all away. But most of the people Sage had investigated were just con artists trying to make a buck or two or a thousand. The details in Sage’s reports had been used by Alan to get his enemies to back off.

Sage hadn’t thought anything wrong with what they’d done. They’d simply used the subjects’ own pasts against them. Everyone had at least one skeleton in their closet.

Sage had learned to exploit those secrets. Just like he’d do to Alan.

They’d never physically hurt anyone.

Until Alan had killed Medford Hughes and his wife.

And until I killed that old librarian.

And Sanjay.

Sage didn’t believe in God. Didn’t believe in hell, no matter how many times Alan had ranted about it. He wasn’t afraid of eternal damnation.

But he’d never actually killed before. He thought about the way the old lady had struggled. How betrayed Sanjay had looked.

Stop. He couldn’t dwell on them now. He’d have a crisis of conscience later.

He looked through the next folder and his eyes grew wide.

Holy shit. This is about me. Every detail of Sage’s life, including the clubs he liked to frequent—far from New Orleans, of course, where someone might recognize him. He always went to Gulfport, Mississippi, and he wore the same wig and glasses that he’d worn to the chop shop that morning.

He hadn’t thought that anyone had recognized him in the clubs. But clearly someone had known he was there.

There were pages and pages of information. Photographs of the men and women he’d taken to hotels after the clubs had closed. Each report was signed by his grandfather’s private investigator. A guy by the name of Dave Reavey.

Sonofabitch. His grandfather had built a blackmail file on Sage, too.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was.

He shouldn’t have been hurt, but he was that, too.

He set that folder aside. He’d be taking it with him.

The next folder was an eye-opener, too. Alan had been having Lexy followed for a long time by the same PI he’d set on Sage. Alan had been spying on Lexy since the very beginning of their marriage. Seems like the PI’s sole function is to keep tabs on Lexy and me.

There was nothing here. Lexy had done nothing wrong. She met with charities and visited sick people in the hospital. She had standing appointments with her hairdresser and her personal trainer, but there was no dirt there, either.

Lexy was a model wife.

Sage wondered what she’d think about this. He grabbed one report at random and slid it into the folder with his own.

Leverage with Lexy, should he need it.

His phone buzzed with a text. Dammit. He wasn’t finished yet.

He checked the message, expecting it to be from the guard at the gate, but it was from his grandfather.

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