Page 62 of Buried Too Deep

Phin’s smile was slow and felt deep. “Okay.” His phone buzzed, and he blinked at the screen. “It’s a text from Cora.”

This is Cora. I hope you’re okay after everything that happened tonight. Give SodaPop a pet from me. Hope you sleep well.

Delores leaned over Phin’s arm, reading the text with unabashed interest. “Awww.” She read it to Stone, who looked pleased. “Well, answer her.”

Phin froze. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Delores returned to her corner of the sofa, her expression one of challenge. “Are you okay?”

Phin thought about it. He’d witnessed a man’s brains coating the inside of his car tonight. Then watched as the man’s wife was wheeled out in a body bag. Not to mention being interrogated by the cops for the second time that day.

“Not really. Better than I’ve been in the past, though, thanks to SodaPop.”

“Then tell her that,” Delores instructed. “Do it, Phineas.”

“Just do it, Phineas,” Stone echoed, resigned. “It’s so much easier.”

“You’ve given-named me,” Phin said, trying for light and not coming close. “I guess I have to do it now.” But his fingers were thicker than usual as he tried to type. He finally got the words on the screen and hit send.

“Now thank her,” Delores said. “And wish her nice dreams.”

Phin laughed. “Okay, Mom.” He did as she said and was surprised when Cora texted back. Hoping to dream of dragons. The text was accompanied by a screenshot of the cover of a fantasy novel. “I don’t think she can sleep.”

Stone pointed to the stairs. “Then go upstairs and text with her until she can.”

Phin stared at him. “And say what?”

Both of his friends just stared at him pointedly.

“Fine,” Phin grunted. He pushed off the sofa and clucked to SodaPop. “Come on, girl. We’ve been dismissed.” He took the dog to his tiny backyard and leaned against his house while SodaPop sniffed the dirt.

Tell me about the dragons, he texted, then smiled when she began to do so.

9

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 7:30 A.M.

PHIN PARKED HIS OLD TRUCK at the curb in front of Cora’s big house and took a moment to stare up at the gorgeous structure. He loved the homes in this part of the city. The architecture, the detail, the grace.

He didn’t love the price tag for the maintenance. He wondered how long Cora would be able to keep it up. It sounded like she poured every free moment—and every free dollar—into cleaning and fixing.

Well, now she’ll have help.

He grabbed his toolbox and held the door open so SodaPop could jump out. Then, following protocol, he texted Val that he was here. She and Molly had switched shifts and Val’s car was in the driveway, parked up against the gate that secured the back garden. Although, if someone wanted to get onto the property, the gate wouldn’t stop them.

I’ll be doing that. Hopefully with better locks on the doors and windows. And if that didn’t work, then…I’ll keep her safe.

He’d made it to the front porch when he noticed a car out of the corner of his eye. It was driving slowly past Cora’s house. The hairs rose on Phin’s neck and he herded SodaPop in front of him.

The car came to a full stop behind his truck and Phin exhaled.

Surely an intruder wouldn’t simply park and knock on her door, would he?

Or maybe it was a reporter. The police hadn’t officially released Cora’s name in their report about Joy’s shooting, but someone inside NOPD might have loose lips.

“Siri, call Val Sorensen mobile,” he said, putting the phone to his ear without taking his eyes off the car.

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