Page 2 of Buried Too Deep

Two men can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

It was a truth he’d have to live with for the rest of his life.

Leaning over John’s body, he pressed the trunk release and retrieved the satchel. He would never spend the money, but he couldn’t leave it. Couldn’t leave anything that could trace back to him or what he had done.

Then he got back into his car and drove away, leaving John’s body where it had fallen.

He drove the long way back to New Orleans, to the north of Lake Pontchartrain, exiting the interstate in Slidell to park the car he’d been driving on the side of a deserted road, keys left in the ignition. With any luck, someone would steal it before dawn.

Then he gathered the satchel, his binoculars, and his gun and walked a mile to where he’d parked his own car. He got in and drove home.

Forgive me, Lord. I didn’t have a choice.

It was done. And God willing, he’d never have to do anything like that ever again.

1

The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 8:01 A.M.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS LATER

PHIN BISHOP STUMBLED TO A stop, staring up at the building that was as close to a home as he’d known in a long time. It wasn’t the building itself, of course, although it was beautiful with its cast iron balconies and its shutters thrown wide in welcome.

Even to me. He hoped.

Because the magic of the building wasn’t in its bricks or balconies. It was in the people who worked within its walls. Burke Broussard and his people had become Phin’s family.

But I deserted them. I ran.

No. He could hear the voice of his therapist in his mind. You didn’t “run.” You have PTSD. You left to get better.

But was he better?

Am I ready to be back?

A hand closed over his shoulder, warm and reassuring. “Phin?” Stone O’Bannion murmured. “We can come back tomorrow. Or we can get SodaPop. This is exactly what she’s trained for. Helping you through situations just like this.”

Swallowing hard, Phin turned to meet his best friend’s eyes and saw understanding and compassion that Phin didn’t think he deserved. Stone was right. Phin should have brought his new service dog. But he hadn’t, wanting to stand on his own two feet.

Which had been wrong thinking. He knew that. Knew that there was no shame in needing a service dog. No shame in having PTSD. He’d accepted that. Accepted that he’d have episodes. That he’d sometimes relapse.

SodaPop made it easier to stave off his episodes. Helped him recover faster when he did relapse.

And you deserve that help. Those words were again in his therapist’s voice. Phin could accept that there was no shame in needing his dog. But he hadn’t been able to accept that he deserved the assistance. And that was the real reason he’d left SodaPop behind this morning.

“That we could come back tomorrow is what you said yesterday,” Phin said. And yesterday, he’d jumped at the chance to turn tail and run.

He’d been running most of his life.

“And I’ll say it tomorrow and the next day.” Stone gave his shoulder a squeeze. Anchoring him. “What are you afraid of? Be honest with me.”

Phin forced the words out. “That they won’t want me back.”

“If they don’t, it’ll hurt,” Stone acknowledged, and Phin was grateful that Stone hadn’t brushed his concerns away. “But I read their texts.” Phin had given Stone permission to read all the communication from his New Orleans friends. “These people care about you. They will want you back.”

“What if I flake again?” He hated losing control of his own mind, hated the spiral that tugged him under.

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