Page 193 of Buried Too Deep

But he was almost on the other side of things. Sage would do what he needed to do and, even if Cora Winslow discovered her father’s other clients, there would be no way to link the Caulfields to him. Therefore, no way to link the murder of Jack Elliot to him.

And if Sage doesn’t do as he’s told? Then what?

Alan couldn’t think about that. He just couldn’t. Once again he cursed the disease that was slowly robbing him of his eyesight. A year ago he would have driven to Merrydale himself.

The job would already have been done.

He’d be—

His cell phone buzzed and he immediately picked it up. Then frowned. There was no name on the caller ID, just the number. But Alan would know that number in his sleep. Glendale Psychiatric Hospital.

Maybe she was dead. It was a gruesome thought that should shame him, but it didn’t. Jenny’s existence there was hardly living.

“Yes?” he answered.

“This is Mrs. Collinsworth. I wanted you to know that your daughter had three visitors this afternoon.”

Visitors? Alan was suddenly on his feet, his headache now excruciating. “Which visitors? What happened?”

“Names are Val Sorensen, Phin Bishop, and Cora Winslow.”

Alan’s knees gave out and he fell into his desk chair. He knew all three of those names. He’d told them incredible lies when they’d visited Sara Morton the night before.

He’d thought they’d believed him. That they’d go after Medford Hughes for pedophilia. But they hadn’t.

Because they knew.

But how did they know?

“Reverend Beauchamp?” Collinsworth sounded concerned. “Are you all right? Should I have detained them?”

Yes. You should have killed them. Which was ludicrous. He couldn’t ask for such a thing.

I’m going to ask Sage to do it.

Because they knew.

“It’s fine. Thank you. Good day.” He ended the call, feeling sick.

Just calm down. Breathe. It might not be that bad. He might not need to ask Sage to kill anyone else.

If the Caulfields were dead, Cora knowing about Jenny wasn’t a big deal. Even if Cora had found out about Jenny’s child, it would be his word against that of a woman who’d been hospitalized for mental illness for twenty-three years.

It would still be all right. If the Caulfields were dead.

Alan called Sage’s cell phone, his gut twisting anxiously.

“Grandfather. Hello.”

Sage sounded…all right. “Did you do it?”

“Of course.” The boy sounded affronted. “I did what you told me to do. The house went up like a box of matchsticks. No one could have survived the blaze.”

Alan wanted to be relieved, he wanted to believe that Sage had killed the Caulfields. But something was off. Something is wrong.

Sage might have just lied to him. He knew the boy’s every vocal inflection.

But he didn’t want to believe it. He needed to be certain. He needed to see the boy’s eyes when he promised he’d completed his assignment. “Thank you. Where are you?”

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