Page 4 of Buried Too Deep

“Already on it,” Stone said grimly.

Phin pressed his fingers to Joy’s throat, searching for a pulse. She was a petite woman, barely five foot two. But she was strong, emotionally and physically. She could not be dead.

His shoulders sagged when he felt a faint pulse. But his relief was short lived when he saw the blood pooling beneath her head. Wounds to her head and heart.

“Fuck!” Stone snapped, and Phin spared him a glance. His friend had the big window open and was half hanging out of it. “Yes, I’m sure,” he was snarling at the 911 operator. “There’s a man running from this building. Dressed in black. Ski mask covering his face. He’s headed north.”

The same direction in which the woman had fled.

Later. Phin ripped off his coat, then pulled his T-shirt over his head and pressed it to her chest since that wound was bleeding more profusely. Her entire blouse was now soaked.

“Joy.” He fought for calm. Took deep breaths, just as his therapist had taught him. “It’s Phin. Stay with me.”

The clatter of running feet had him looking up in time to see two uniformed cops rushing toward him. Guns drawn.

“Back away from her,” one commanded.

“You, by the window,” the other snarled, “put down the phone and put your hands in the air.”

“I’m helping her,” Phin insisted, and he could hear his panic. “If I let go, she’ll bleed out.”

“I’m talking to 911,” Stone said, putting up his hands but holding on to his phone.

The second cop snatched the phone from Stone’s hand and exchanged a few words with the operator before returning Stone’s phone. “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

The first cop stalked toward Phin, gun still drawn. “You are?”

“Phin Bishop.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here. I came in and found her this way. When will the medics be here?” The blood flow had slowed, but Phin didn’t know if it was because of the pressure he applied or if she was bleeding out.

Please don’t die.

He couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t have blood on his hands again. He’d barely survived the last time.

“They’re on their way,” the first cop said.

But Phin barely heard him, his ear hovering over Joy’s mouth, listening for her next breath. Her chest had stopped rising and falling, and a new wave of panic washed over him. “She’s not breathing. Stone.”

Ignoring the second cop’s protest, Stone left his post by the window and joined Phin on the floor next to Joy. “I’m going to do mouth-to-mouth,” he said. “You keep applying pressure.”

Horrified, Phin kept both hands pressed to Joy’s wound while Stone breathed for her.

“Let me go! Goddammit, let me go!” a male voice demanded, heavy with a Cajun drawl that could only belong to one man.

Burke Broussard was here. Phin’s boss would know what to do.

Burke shook off the cop’s grip, his bike helmet clutched in one hand. “Phin?” The bike helmet dropped to the floor as Burke stared, myriad emotions flickering over his face.

Fear. Surprise. Horror.

And there, for just a moment, accusation.

Burke thought that Phin had done this.

Phin stiffened. He didn’t have to wonder about his welcome anymore. He now knew the answer. Burke thought he was capable of hurting Joy. “We found her,” Phin said bitterly.

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