Page 125 of Buried Too Deep

Sage couldn’t look away. On some level he knew her, even though he was certain they’d never met.

It was that damn dimple. Just like mine.

He became aware that he’d been sitting too long. He was lucky no one had come along, demanding to know what he was doing there.

He drove away, nearly reaching the interstate when his burner phone dinged with a text.

No one had this number, so it had to be a forwarded message. His personal cell phone was still in the Faraday bag, but it was synced to his laptop at home. All messages that came through to the laptop would be forwarded to his burner. He could return any messages using a spoofing service to make it appear that they’d come from his personal phone.

He’d been using this method to hide from his grandfather for years. Of course it had been for naught since Alan had hired a PI to follow him.

Irritated at the thought of his privacy being so invaded, he pulled over to look at the text. It was from his grandfather.

Because of course it was.

Where are you?

Sage considered his answer. If the man was still having him followed, the PI was really good because Sage hadn’t seen evidence of a tail.

Visiting friends in Gulfport, he replied. His grandfather knew he’d visited the Gulfport clubs, thanks to the PI. His grandfather was going to assume he was off getting defiled or something.

I need you here. In New Orleans. Now.

Sorry. I’m off the clock until tomorrow morning, Sage added, wondering what Alan would say to that.

There was no reply for so long that Sage had put his phone away and was about to pull back onto the little two-lane road that fed into the interstate, but his phone dinged again.

Report to my office at 9 am. Sharp.

Irritation rising, Sage typed back, Sir, yes sir! He hit send before he could rein in his attitude.

Watch the attitude, boy. Tomorrow. 9 am. Do not be late.

“Asshole,” Sage muttered, tossing the phone onto the center console.

He wondered if Alan would finally get to the point. He wondered if tomorrow would be another two-hour staring session where Alan said less than ten words.

He wondered what Ashley Caulfield had to do with Cora Winslow.

17

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 4:00 P.M.

PHIN ROLLED HIS SHOULDERS. “THAT was heavier than it looked.”

Burke looked up from where he sat on Cora’s attic floor, an open box at his side. “I told you that I’d help you with that shutter.”

The third-story shutter, which had been hanging on by a single screw, had been bothering Phin since he’d first arrived at Cora’s house two days ago. It was back in place now and would stay that way for another fifty years.

Phin crouched next to the box Burke searched. “What are you finding?”

Burke had come straight to the attic when they’d returned from Houma. Phin had followed him, helping him search for a few hours. Six boxes later, he’d become itchy and needed a break and some physical activity.

Fixing that shutter had settled him, and that was a good thing.

Stone and Delores had been searching boxes the whole time Phin and the others had been to Houma and back but had come up with nothing. They’d taken a break to go wander the Quarter for a while. That seemed like torture to Phin. He needed to keep his hands busy.

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