Page 8 of Buried Too Deep

That they’d go after her friends hadn’t occurred to her. I should have told her everything.

“I’m fine. It’s Joy. She was shot.”

Cora’s knees buckled and she landed back in the chair. “What?” she croaked weakly.

“Joy was shot this morning. Her boss told Nala, and Nala sent out a group text. I’m going to sit with her. Why are you in my office, Cora? What’s wrong?”

“I…I just wanted…” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence. She quickly checked her messages and saw the text from Joy’s daughter Nala. And the ten follow-up texts from Tandy. “Is Joy okay?”

“Nala doesn’t know yet. She and Louisa are waiting on the doctor to tell them.”

Cora’s stomach rolled. This is all my fault.

“Cora, what is wrong with you? Tell me.”

“I need to go. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Cora ended the call, a wave of nausea washing over her. She would not be sick.

I shouldn’t have run. It should have been me that was shot. Not Joy.

But even as she thought the words, she knew they weren’t true. No one should have been shot. But especially not Joy.

Squaring her shoulders, Cora rose. She wasn’t going to the hospital. She was going to the police station.

She’d make sure they listened to her this time.

The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 10:45 A.M.

Phin stared at his hands, clenched into fists on the tabletop in the NOPD interrogation room. Interview, the cop had insisted. Not interrogation.

But it had felt that way from the moment they’d taken him into custody, his bloody hands bagged—to preserve evidence, the cops had insisted.

His hands were clean now, at least. Clean and stinking of disinfectant.

He knew someone watched him on the other side of the mirror. He wasn’t going to give them any more ammunition against him.

Once they’d put him in this room, they’d talked at him, asking him the same questions over and over.

Why did you come back today?

Who did you see running away from the building?

What’s wrong with you?

That last question was because he hadn’t answered a single question. He hadn’t said a word, not when they’d cleaned the blood from his hands. Not when they’d done a test for gunpowder residue. He’d just stared at his hands.

Like he was still doing.

I’m okay.

But he wasn’t okay, and none of the techniques his therapist had taught him were helping. His breaths were becoming shallow and sharp, his vision wavy. He could hear the explosions. The screams. The pleas for help.

The pleas for death.

No. You will not go back there.

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