Chapter 13

13

Uptown, New Orleans, Louisiana

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 11:48 P.M.

ALAN LAID HIS PHONE ON his desk, trembling.

This was so much worse than he'd thought.

Sage had disobeyed a direct order. He'd continued to surveil Cora Winslow after Alan had told him to stay away from the woman.

His grandson tried to make it seem like he was being helpful, that he was trying to atone for his failure to get Cora's letters from Broussard. But Alan knew Sage. He'd raised him, after all. Sage had smelled Alan's blood in the water and was circling like a shark.

Alan had feared the day that his grandson would try to overthrow him. Would try to take everything that Alan had spent his lifetime building. Everything that Alan had sacrificed to achieve.

It was time to deal with Sage before Alan completely lost control of the situation.

Sage was ruthless under the charming facade, but Alan almost couldn't blame him for it. The boy had come by it honestly. Alan knew his own charisma was his greatest skill.

Sage thought he was in charge. He'd soon find out differently.

For now, though, Sage's information was as damaging as his blatant disobedience.

Hearing about the years of letters from her father on the recordings from the bugs Sage had planted in Cora's purse had been a shock, but they had explained one thing.

He'd always wondered why the police had never investigated the man's death. The man he'd known as John Robertson. The man who was really Jack Elliot.

Jack Elliot's body hadn't been discovered twenty-three years ago. Not by the police anyway.

Someone had discovered it, though. Someone had moved it, burying the man in the foundation of new construction.

And someone had sent Cora Winslow letters all this time so that she wouldn't think her father was dead.

Who had found the body after Alan had killed him? Who had hidden it?

And why?

Someone had taken Jack Elliot's body from that parking lot in Baton Rouge where Alan had killed him and had driven nearly two hours to the building in Houma to hide the body somewhere else.

And then someone had continued to take great pains to make sure that no one searched for Jack Elliot, writing letters to his daughter for more than two decades.

Were they the same someone?

If so, that person had to be freaking out right now as much as Alan was, because they'd hidden Jack's body, thinking it would stay encased in the foundation of the Damper Building for decades to come.

But why ?

Assuming it wasn't a random stranger, that meant that whoever had hidden the body had known it was there in that parking lot. Which suggested that someone had been following Jack.

And me.

Who was that someone?

Alan had thought of little else in the two weeks since seeing Jack Elliot's face on the news after the Terrebonne Parish sheriff's department had ID'd him. The cops had posted Jack's driver's license photo, taken only a year before his death.

Seeing that face on the news had brought back all the nightmares Alan had suffered for the past twenty-three years.

He wondered if the person who'd hidden the body felt the same way.

Alan had actually thought he'd gotten away with something all those years ago. The police hadn't come knocking on his door back then and, over the years, he'd just…let it go.

But now Cora Winslow was searching her house. Private investigators—good ones—were looking for clues. And it appeared that they'd found one.

He looked down at the document on his desk—the report from his own PI on Alice VanPatten. Usually, his PI's sole responsibility was to keep an eye on Lexy and Sage, to make sure they didn't fool around or do anything that might cause a scandal.

Scandals were very bad for churches. Donations tended to dry up in the face of scandal. Lexy had been a model wife. Sage's sins had been many, but no one had discovered them.

This scandal was Alan's. For the minister to stand accused was so much worse than if his family had created the problems. So he'd assigned his PI to investigate Alice VanPatten.

Dave Reavey had been ecstatic to do something other than following Lexy and Sage around. He'd thrown himself into a records search and had come up with facts that hadn't made sense to Dave but made perfect sense to Alan.

Until twenty-three years ago, Alice VanPatten had been married to Jarred Bergeron, an abusive man. Her husband had beaten her senseless, then had gotten himself killed in a hunting accident. Even though he hadn't been a hunter. The wife had been a suspect in her husband's murder, but a neatly crafted alibi had absolved her of guilt.

She'd been in a hotel room miles away with a man whose description fit the man Alan had known as John Robertson to a T. A man who'd called himself John Winslow.

She'd then sold her dead husband's holdings and moved to Baton Rouge.

That sent a chill down Alan's spine. The death of her husband had been only two weeks before his own trip to Baton Rouge, twenty-three years ago. Jack Elliot had to have been involved.

The clincher, of course, had been the name of her child. John Robert VanPatten. She'd named her son after the man who'd rescued her from domestic violence. That John Robertson, a.k.a. John Winslow, a.k.a. Jack Elliot, had killed her husband was undeniable fact in Alan's mind.

Cora Winslow and Broussard's people had found one of Jack's clients. According to Sage, Cora had been stunned as she'd left the VanPatten household.

So now she knew what her father had been.

And if she'd found one client, there was a chance she'd find more.

A chance she'll find me.

He hadn't given his legal name to John Robertson and he'd paid the man with cash a week before the job, so there was no linkage there. But there were plenty of other ways this could come back to cage him.

He couldn't allow that to happen.

Cora Winslow absolutely could not find the Caulfield family, who still lived in the same house in Merrydale with the green door and the tidy front yard. They weren't trying to hide from anyone. They'd simply been living their lives for twenty-three years.

Alan knew this because he'd driven by a time or two over those years. Just to be sure. Just to see for himself.

Another thought occurred, stealing Alan's breath. The Caulfields could have been of the same mind that he'd been twenty-three years ago. Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

Mr. Caulfield could have followed "John Robertson" away from the house with the green door and the tidy lawn that night. Caulfield might have been the one to witness Alan killing the man who'd been the go-between in their deal.

Their illegal deal.

Caulfield might have been the one to move the body to the foundation of the Damper Building. He might be the one responsible for the search of Cora's attic tonight.

Or it could be someone completely unrelated.

Alan didn't know and couldn't care. He just knew that Cora could not be permitted to locate that family. And if she did, she couldn't be permitted to speak with them.

There was no statute of limitations for murder.

Slowly he rose from his desk, his PI's report in hand. He opened the hinged bookcase and twisted the dial on his safe. One-zero-fifteen.

He put the report in the back of the safe with all the others his PI had generated over the years. He started to close the safe, then paused, his heart racing, his mind spinning. Carefully he pulled out the most recent photo he'd taken.

Of her. Ashley Caulfield.

One-zero-fifteen.

He stared at her face for a long, long moment, sorrow and regret weighing him down like bricks. But he couldn't change the past.

With a heavy heart, he put the photo back into the safe, closed the door, and spun the dial.

Ashley was innocent. She was just living her life.

But she and her family had to be silenced.

That this was all bubbling to the surface now was Cora Winslow's fault. If she'd just left well enough alone, everything would have been fine.

Now, he had secrets to bury so deep they'd never be found again.

But he couldn't do this himself. There was no way. He'd barely been able to drive to Medford Hughes's house in Mid-City. Driving to the Caulfields' home north of Baton Rouge was out of the question.

He'd ask Sage for this last thing.

If Sage agreed to his request, Alan would know that his grandson was irredeemable. If he didn't agree, Sage would have even more to hold over Alan's head.

Either way, he'd have to silence Sage, too. It was always going to end this way. He could see it now.

This will kill me.

But his life's work was important. He couldn't let it be tarnished. People would suffer.

He thought about his Anna, slumped in her chair, her blood and brains covering the paisley fabric. Anna had suffered.

So did I.

So had others. But if Alan was exposed, so many more would be hurt. His followers could lose their faith. He couldn't allow that to happen.

Sometimes the needs of the many really did outweigh the needs of the few.

Abraham had been prepared to sacrifice his only son, after all.

Sage would be Alan's sacrifice.

The Caulfields would have to be collateral damage.

Alan returned to his desk, placing his head in his hands. How did he present this to Sage in a way that the boy would agree?

He wished he'd eliminated the Caulfields years ago when he'd still had his independence, but he hadn't. Now he had to depend on someone else to finish the job.

He thought about the face in the photo. Ashley was innocent in all of this. In every single thing.

How was he supposed to package the murder of an innocent as a necessary evil? How could he frame it so that Sage would actually obey him?

I'll find a way.

He had to, because if Cora Winslow got to the Caulfields first, nothing would be salvageable.

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1:00 A.M.

Phin hadn't lied to Cora. He really had slept on more uncomfortable surfaces than the floor outside her bedroom door.

But this floor was cold. Luckily SodaPop was warm. She lay curled up against his thigh as he sat with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out toward Cora's door.

Cora had given him a blanket and that helped.

It also smelled like her, which was a bonus.

He had no idea why she'd chosen him to guard her door tonight, but he'd gladly accept the responsibility. He thought that she'd be fragile, given all she'd lost. And a part of her was. A part of her had raised walls to keep from getting hurt again. She held herself aloof. As if allowing anyone too close would be more than she could tolerate without breaking down.

But she was not a fragile woman. Not by a long shot.

His heart had nearly stopped when she'd dropped her body onto that thug's legs. She could have been hurt in so many different ways, but he didn't think she'd even considered the risk to herself.

But he wasn't foolish enough to mention it again. Molly had scolded her and received the frostiest glare he'd seen in a long time.

No way did he want to be on the receiving end of that glare.

No, he wanted the warmth he saw in her brandy-colored eyes. The trust. He'd planned to camp out exactly where he was before she'd asked him to stay with her.

That she had asked was satisfying in ways that he couldn't explain.

Sure you can. You like her. You want to protect her.

You want her to find you useful.

You want her to find you…worthy. Worthy of keeping. Worthy of wanting.

Because you want her, too.

He wanted to tell that voice in his head to shut up, but it was right. On all of it. He wanted Cora Winslow. He wanted to feel her up against him, wanted to know what she tasted like. He wanted her to trust him with more than her safety. He wanted her to trust him with her pleasure, because he didn't think she'd had nearly enough of that in her life.

But he also wanted to be useful, and that was a more likely ending to their story. Being truly useful to someone he cared about was what got him through each day. It was what had kept him coming back to Broussard Investigations every time he'd spiraled and bolted, even though he'd never be an official member of the firm.

They cared about him, of course. They'd trained him to take on more responsibility, and he appreciated that so very much. But, at the end of the day, he was not a bodyguard. He was not a PI. He was their handyman and their night security.

Even when he hadn't been able to be what they were, they'd still needed him.

But not like Cora Winslow needed him. Hers was short-term need, but he didn't care. He felt more alive sitting on her cold floor than he had in a long time.

Maybe ever.

Her bedroom door creaked open, causing him to jolt to full awareness. She stood in the doorway wearing her bathrobe and fuzzy socks.

At least her feet weren't bare this time.

In her arms, she carried more blankets and two pillows. "Still can't sleep," she said quietly.

He'd been afraid of that. She'd been completely wired when Detective Clancy had finally taken his leave after getting their statements about the break-in. Phin had hoped her adrenaline would crash and she'd sleep out of sheer exhaustion, but it didn't look like that was the case.

"The house is locked up like Fort Knox," he said. "The alarm's set and I checked all the doors and windows myself."

"I know and I trust that." She crossed the hall and stood above him, looking down to meet his eyes. "I trust you . I'm just…my mind won't be quiet."

I trust you.

She probably shouldn't. He would let her down eventually. He wouldn't mean to, but it was pretty much a given.

"Did you finish the dragon book?" he asked.

She sighed. "I can't even read. I blink and realize that I've just been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. I've never not been able to lose myself in a book. Even when John Robert was so sick." She bit at her lip. "Can I sit out here with you?"

Of course she could. It was her house. But he knew that wasn't what she meant.

He moved his gun to the other side of his body and patted the floor beside him. "We can make a pillow fort."

She laughed, her face lighting up for the briefest of moments. It made him feel…proud.

She settled next to him, offering him the extra blankets. "I don't have enough pillows for a fort, but we can stay warm. I think the furnace is on the fritz again."

"I think you're right. I'll take a look at it tomorrow."

Together they spread the blankets, SodaPop scooting up until only her head was visible. They stuffed the pillows behind their backs and Cora pulled the blankets to her chin.

Their arms were under the soft covers, but not touching.

Not yet. His hand itched to reach for hers, but he'd let her make the first move. This was as vulnerable as he'd ever seen her.

Cora leaned against the wall with a weary sigh. Her shoulder was pressed against his, but her head rested on the wall. She turned just her head to look up at him. "Were you actually asleep?"

"No. I'm usually awake at night anyway. I'm the night security for Burke."

"Oh right. You did tell me that."

They sat in silence for at least a minute, the only sound that of Blue snoring from inside her bedroom. "Your dog is an enthusiastic sleeper," Phin said.

She chuckled. "He's like a buzz saw. My own little white noise machine. John Robert couldn't sleep without him in the room." She sighed again. "How that dog grieved when he died. It broke my heart."

Phin flexed his fingers, telling them to keep to themselves. She'd reach for his hand if she wanted to. "When did you get Blue?"

"I was sixteen and John Robert was fourteen. Blue was his birthday present that year. He couldn't go to school because he was so immunosuppressed from the chemo. Mama got him Blue to keep him company. He was John Robert's dog from day one."

"Your brother had been sick a long time."

"He was. His first lymphoma diagnosis was when he was five years old. He'd been sick since he was younger, though. It started when he was two or three and got a virus. That may have triggered the lymphoma. He had a few healthy years off and on, but most of the time he was really sick. That was hard, seeing him so sick. He'd get through a series of treatments and we'd hope…" She sighed sadly. "And then it would come back again. Four times in all. The last time…he was so tired. His body couldn't take the treatments anymore."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I've upset you."

"Oh no, it wasn't you. I don't mind you asking questions, Phin."

They were quiet for a minute or so, and then Phin couldn't hold his next question back any longer. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"My father." She'd closed her eyes, her head back against the wall. "I'm so angry with him, Phin. Then I feel guilty for being angry with him because he's dead, which makes me even angrier. My mother had to bear the weight of John Robert's care. She worried all the time. She could have used my father's support, but he was gone. She thought he'd left her. Left us. Now I find out that he was dead all along, probably because of a job we never even knew about. I'm angry because he threw his life away, and I'm angry that we didn't know he was dead. That all this time we thought we were lacking somehow. That we weren't good enough. Or too much damn trouble. And that makes me angry ."

She wasn't done. He could tell. So he remained quiet, waiting for her to continue in her own time.

Finally she exhaled, a tear escaping her closed eyes. "He knew John Robert was sick. He knew that. He had a wife and two little kids. Why did he need to do a job that was so dangerous? It got him killed, and for what? Helping strangers. And that makes me sound so selfish, and I hate myself for even thinking it."

More tears followed the first one and Phin gave up on letting her make the first move. She was hurting and he needed to help.

He put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, gratified when her head came to rest on his shoulder. She was so soft. "You are not selfish. My dad is a retired cop. There were plenty of times we were afraid that he'd never come home. I get your anger. I felt it, too. Not every day, but sometimes. Often, actually. I understood why he did the job he did and my mother did, too. But it was something our family lived with, the knowledge that he might not come home after a shift. Because he was helping strangers."

It had been a source of his anxiety as a teenager and something he'd included in those journal entries he'd guarded so zealously.

He stroked her hair, breathing her in. She smelled like strawberries. "My brothers and sister…I don't know what they were feeling. On the outside, we were all supportive and proud of our dad. But it affected me. I always had anxiety and whenever he'd have a close call, I'd have to fight not to lose my temper with everyone else in the house."

She was quiet for a moment. "That's what you journaled, wasn't it?"

He wasn't surprised that she'd put that together. She was an intelligent woman. He liked that, too. "A lot of it, yes. My brothers and sister were always so…okay. So level. Not like me. I was up and down, all the time. I hated it. Hated me."

"No," she whispered.

"Yes," he whispered back. "It took a long time, but I've learned to cut that angry teenager some slack."

"Nobody helped you back then?"

"Nobody knew. I never let anyone know. I didn't want them to know. I was ashamed and mad and confused. And I wanted out. Out of the perfect family. I was the broken one. And that would hurt them to know I felt that way."

"That's why you haven't been home?"

"Part of it. Mostly I hate being the source of so much drama. I hate not being—" He cut himself off. This was about her, not him.

"Not being perfect like them," she finished. "But they love you."

"They do. I don't know why, but they do."

She pulled back enough to stare up at him. "You really don't know why?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. This was territory he rarely ventured into, even with his therapist. "I guess it's because I'm theirs."

"And you've got a good heart. Was…" She hesitated. "Was the anger a symptom of depression?"

"It was, which I know now. I've finally found some meds that help, but I didn't have them back then. I didn't think about depression being a thing then. I was just biding my time until I was eighteen and could join the army. Not my smartest decision."

"Out of the frying pan, into the fire."

"Exactly."

"But you're going back to see them?"

"On Christmas, yes. Even if I'm not perfect. I've got nine days. What are my chances of achieving perfection?"

She smiled up at him. "I'd bet on you."

Her smile…It warmed him like no blanket ever could. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her face. She was beautiful just like this, with her hair messy and her eyes a little red from crying. Because she was staring up at him, too.

As the seconds ticked by, the air between them grew charged, waiting for something to happen. Her eyes were no longer filled with anger and pain. There was heat there. Heat and want, and Phin's heart was pounding so hard it was all he could hear.

She wanted him, too.

Her smile faltered, becoming tentative, but the desire remained. "Phin?"

He couldn't manage a single word, so he brushed the wayward curls from her face, trailing his fingertips over her cheek.

She leaned into his hand, keeping her gaze on his. One of her hands emerged from the blankets to curve around his neck and he froze.

Her brows lifted. "Phin? You still with me?"

He could only nod.

Her lips curved. "I'm going to kiss you now. Blink once for yes, that's okay, and twice for no, don't do it."

Phin laughed, his brain and his mouth suddenly cooperating once again. "Yes. Please."

"So polite." She tugged him down and her lips were on his.

Sweet. So sweet. And soft and…

It was over too soon so he took charge, running his fingers into her hair and taking her mouth again. Better, even better.

It had been so long since he'd done this. Since he'd kissed someone.

So long since he'd let someone this close.

He wanted her closer.

He wanted so much more.

But not tonight. Not here, out in the hallway on the floor with Molly downstairs standing guard.

He pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. For a long time they said nothing. Just breathed.

And then the high of kissing her ebbed, and the doubts kicked in. This was insane. She didn't deserve a broken man. She deserved a perfect man.

At least one more perfect than me.

She pulled away to study him, her brow furrowing. "Whatever you're thinking, stop. I'm not sorry."

He sighed. "You should be."

Her jaw tightened, her expression the stubborn one he was quickly coming to know. "You don't get to tell me that. I like you. A lot. I think you're sweet. And you're a very good kisser."

His cheeks heated. "Out of practice," he muttered, looking away.

She gripped his chin gently, pulling him back to face her. "If that's out of practice, I'm volunteering as tribute to further hone your skills." She rubbed her thumb over his lip. "But I'll leave you alone for now. I didn't come out here to kiss you. I came out here because I needed to sleep and, for whatever reason, I can do that with you."

He rolled his eyes. "Because I'm boring."

She smiled up at him. "Because you're solid. And smart. And loyal. And pretty damn hot."

He needed to say something. He opened his mouth, but no words would come.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile grew. "Blink once for thank you and twice for I'm not interested, please go away."

He blinked once, hard.

"Good." She let go of his chin and snuggled into his side. "I'll kiss you again tomorrow, fair warning. Now I'm going to sleep."

Within minutes, she was breathing deeply and Phin was still reeling.

But smiling. It was still insane, but he'd let himself have this. This feeling of being enough. For a little while.

For as long as it lasted.

The Warehouse District, New Orleans, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 2:10 A.M.

The ringing of Sage's cell phone didn't wake him, because he hadn't been able to fall sleep. He'd been staring at the ceiling for hours, wondering if he shouldn't be breaking into his grandfather's study right now, so that he could find out what in the safe had put that look on Alan's face.

That look of defeat and guilt.

What the hell had Alan done?

But the guard on night duty would surely inform Alan that Sage had entered the gated community, so he was going to have to wait. Even though the suspense was killing him.

Clumsily he reached for his phone, frowning when he realized it was the burner phone. Only a few people had that number. "Hello?"

"It's Sanjay."

His contact at the car rental facility. Sage had met Sanjay through Alan. Sanjay's parents had been some of Alan's most ardent supporters. They'd never missed a Sunday, always dropped cash in the offering plate, and generally hung on Alan's every word.

Sage and Sanjay, on the other hand, had been typical teenagers—stealing away to smoke pot. Sage provided the money and Sanjay had the connections. Years later, he and Sanjay rarely smoked anymore.

Sanjay had a job with a car rental company at the airport. Sanjay hooked Sage up with rentals whenever he needed to be discreet. His own Porsche was too recognizable.

Usually Sage borrowed the cars when he went clubbing in Gulfport, far away from Alan's watchful eyes, but sometimes it was for business. Like the Camry he'd picked up the morning before or the minivan he'd borrowed when he'd broken into Cora Winslow's house.

Sanjay rented the vehicles in his own name and Sage forked over the cash, usually twice the actual fee. He knew Sanjay was overcharging him, but discretion was sometimes expensive.

"What's up?" he asked with a yawn.

"We got a police inquiry about the Camry that I rented you off the books. Came in just before midnight. You need to ditch it, man. Leave it somewhere and I'll come and get it after my shift is up."

Shit, damn, and fuck it all. "Who made the inquiry?"

"Detective Clancy. Is that meaningful?"

Unfortunately, it was. He was the detective investigating the murder of Medford Hughes. Sage wondered if that old librarian had turned him in. Or someone might have spied him parked near Cora Winslow's house. Either way, this was not good. "No," he lied. "I'll move the car and text you. It'll come from my burner, so be watching for it."

"Will do. And…best not to call me again for a while. I think I can hide this, but not if it happens again."

Sage wanted to tell the man to go to hell, but he might need him later. "Of course," he said and ended the call.

Next time he'd buy his own damn car from a junkyard with cash. A car that still had a good frame and wouldn't look out of place on a street in the Garden District. That was why he'd rented a damn Camry. It blended in.

Clearly it hadn't, though. Someone had seen him or had at least seen the car.

Had they seen him personally, they would be knocking on his door.

They still might.

But they couldn't prove that it had been him parked on Cora's street. He'd worn a cap. His face hadn't been clearly visible. And he'd worn gloves the entire time. No prints.

The only person who'd actually seen him in the car was that damned librarian. Minnie Edwards. She could identify him.

He cursed himself for his own stupidity. She'd surprised him, knocking on his window and demanding to know why he was there. He'd been stupid, telling her he was there for Cora. Dammit.

If she had been the one to report the Camry to Detective Clancy, she'd likely given the police his description. But again, if the cops knew that he was the driver, they'd have arrested him already. Although they might still figure it out if her description was good enough. Sage thought that the old woman with the sharp stare would give a very detailed description.

She was a witness. The only person who could identify him in a lineup should he become a suspect.

She had to be silenced.

But…

He wanted to scream. He wasn't a killer. Not like his grandfather. But his other choices weren't good. The old lady had to go. He'd make it fast. She wouldn't feel any pain.

That was the best he could do.

He got out of bed and dressed all in black, hating that he'd left a loose end.

Two, actually. Because now that Detective Clancy had the Camry's license plate, the cops would press Sanjay hard. Sanjay was a good guy, but he'd fold like a cheap suit.

When Sage was only borrowing cars to go clubbing, it wouldn't have been a big deal if Sanjay blabbed.

This, though…This was a much bigger deal.

Dread settled on his chest, heavy as lead. Sanjay would have to go, too.

But that's all. After them, no more. I swear it.

He would not become like Alan. He swore that, too.