Library

Chapter 1

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.

Stone shrugged. "Then you leave, you heal, and you try again."

Phin's chest hurt. "I'm so tired of leaving."

"Then stay. Take a step. Right now. There you go. Now another. That's the way."

Phin forced his feet to move closer to the building that housed Broussard Investigations. "I should have stopped for beignets."

Stone chuckled, clearly not fooled by the lame procrastination attempt. "I'll get some for you. Once you're inside and talking to your friends."

The building grew closer and Phin's chest grew tighter. "Why are you still here? Babysitting me?" He was grateful. He was. But he didn't entirely understand why Stone put up with him. "You have better things to do."

"No, I don't. Right now, I'm exactly where I need to be, doing what I need to do. Because you need me. And because I've been where you are. Someone stuck by my side until I could walk alone." Phin knew Stone's story. His friend had been an addict, sober for years now. "So I'm paying it forward, doing it for you. Keep walking, Phin."

They were nearly at the front door. Just another fifteen feet.

Then the door burst open, banging into the wall behind it. Startled at the sound, Phin lurched back, once again grateful for Stone's steadying hand. When he'd righted himself, he got a glimpse of the woman who'd thrown the door open. She wore a gray hooded cloak that hid her face, but a wisp of black hair escaped the hood to whip in the wind. For a moment, Phin stood stock-still, staring as she rushed away, heading toward the center of the Quarter.

The only part of her body that was visible was her legs.

They were very nice legs. Her calves were perfectly defined, thanks to the three-inch heels she wore. How she was able to walk in heels that high—much less run—was a mystery.

She took an abrupt left at the next intersection and disappeared from view.

"Who was that?" Stone asked.

"I don't know." He'd never seen her before. He'd remember legs like that.

Importantly, her appearance had stopped the mental spiral of his anxiety. Sometimes a distraction was exactly what he needed to get his head on straight.

That's what SodaPop's supposed to do, you idiot.

Fine. Next time he'd bring her along.

"Did she come from your office?" Stone pressed. "From Broussard Investigations?"

Phin stilled. She hadn't been a woman with nice legs. She'd been a fleeing woman with nice legs. "Shit."

The sound of two gunshots, one right after the other, shoved his body into motion, and he started to run.

"Joy." She'll be alone. Because she was always the first in the office.

"Joy's the office manager?" Stone asked, running beside him. "The lady who uses a wheelchair?"

"Yes." Phin bypassed the ancient elevator and took the stairs. He'd told Stone about everyone in Burke's office. He cared about them all, but Joy was special. She'd accepted him from the beginning. Taken him under her wing. Mothered him. Trusted him. "Ex-cop. Got shot on the job. Paralyzed from the waist down. Tougher than she looks."

She'd be okay. Joy could take care of herself, he told himself, propelling himself up the last few stairs in a single leap.

They rushed from the stairwell into Burke's lobby. It was an open space with large windows along one wall that faced the street below. Joy's desk would be in the dead center of the room and she'd be sitting behind her computer, doing whatever it was she did every morning. She'd give him a look that was both chiding and welcoming.

Just like all the other times he'd returned from having run.

Except…she wasn't behind her desk.

"Oh no." Phin's heart went from a gallop to a dead stop.

Because Joy lay on the floor next to her desk, her wheelchair on its side. Her white blouse was rapidly becoming red with blood and she wasn't moving.

" No ," he gasped, racing to her side. "Call 911."

"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.

Another man raced into the lobby from one of the back offices, his clothes rumpled. Antoine Holmes, their IT specialist. "Phin? What the fuck?" His gaze pivoted to Stone, breathing into Joy's mouth. "Stone? What're you doing here? What the hell's going on?"

Burke and Antoine rushed over to where Joy lay. Burke dropped to his knees next to Phin. "Tell me what happened."

Antoine knelt on the other side of Stone, looking helpless. But not accusatory.

At least there was that.

Phin lowered his gaze to his bloody hands pressed to Joy's even bloodier chest, to Stone still giving her mouth-to-mouth. "We found her" were the only words he could find to say.

Burke brushed his hand over Joy's close-cropped hair. "Joy, honey, I'm here." He spared Phin a quick glance. "I'm sorry, Phin. I panicked. I know you could never hurt her."

Stone looked up, glaring at Burke. "Asshole," he muttered, then went back to breathing for Joy. "Cameras?" he asked during his next mini break.

Burke looked over at Antoine. "Did you check the feed?"

"Yeah." Antoine scrubbed at his face with his palms. "I was asleep at my desk. Headphones on. Heard the shots but they were muffled. Didn't wake me up right away. I immediately checked the feed. It was a man, dressed in black. Joy shot him, then he and Joy fought over her gun. He shot her, then hit her head with the grip. Pushed her wheelchair over."

"I should have hired…" Burke winced, his voice trailing off.

"Night security," Phin muttered, because…yeah. "This is my fault."

Burke's voice hardened. "No, it's not." He stared at Stone. "Why are you here?"

"He came with me," Phin said. He knew that Burke knew who Stone was. It was Stone who'd asked Antoine to help Phin get a job in New Orleans. Antoine had asked Burke, who'd welcomed him into the group. "Escorted the prodigal son home," he added, hoping his words hurt Burke to hear as much as they hurt him to say.

He thought I did this.

Burke winced. "Dammit, Phin. At least wait to be angry until after we get Joy taken care of. Was she conscious at all? Did she say anything?"

Burke was right. This was about Joy. Not me.

"No. She was unconscious when we found her. We saw a woman running from the building, heard the shots, then Stone saw a man running away. That's all I know."

Burke clasped Phin's shoulder much as Stone had done. Phin fought the urge to shake him off. "I'm glad you're home," Burke said quietly. "I swear it."

Phin wished he could believe that. "Where are the medics?" he shouted to the cops, who were just standing around, watching.

"On their way up," one of the cops said.

Thirty seconds later, two medics with a stretcher burst out of the elevator. Stone straightened, sitting back on his heels as they put an oxygen mask over Joy's mouth.

"Phin," Stone said quietly, tugging at his arm. "Let them get to her. You need to move."

Woodenly Phin rose and took a step back, his hands warm and wet with Joy's blood. Now that the medics were here, he focused on the blood dripping from his hands.

And remembered the last time.

The office dissolved, Phin's nightmares taking its place. Explosions. People screaming. Bodies falling.

Body parts everywhere. Just…everywhere.

And blood dripped from Phin's hands. So much blood.

Dry hands gripped Phin's face harshly. "Phin," Stone hissed. "Stay with us."

Phin blinked. Stone was staring at him, his expression too urgent to ignore.

"There you are," his friend said with relief. "Don't disappear on me." Stone spared an angry glance at Burke. "You're an asshole."

Burke was watching the medics work on Joy, his face pale under his tan. "I know."

Phin shuddered. "His reaction was fair."

"It wasn't," Burke said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"What the fuck happened? What did you do, Burke?" Antoine asked, but his voice was growing faint.

The whole room was growing faint as the buzzing in Phin's head grew louder.

Shit. Not now. Not again.

Phin leaned against the wall. His brain was going numb. He could feel it happening. Sliding to the floor, he watched the medics with the out-of-body detachedness that he hated so much.

He was disappearing. Again.

The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 8:25 A.M.

Cora Winslow darted around the pedestrians on Bourbon Street, trying not to look like she was fleeing for her life. Even though she was.

The throwaway phone was cutting into her hand, her grip on it punishing. Call 911 again. Get help.

But panic had overtaken her, her feet still rushing forward. Get to Tandy's.

Her best friend's art gallery was a safe place.

She glanced over her shoulder and nearly cried with relief. No sign of the man who'd stormed the private investigator's office.

Unless he'd removed the ski mask and his black jacket.

She had, after all. Not a ski mask, but she had taken off her cloak, bunching it up and carrying it under her arm like a football. The black wig she'd worn had come off as soon as she'd turned the first corner and had been flung into a dumpster outside a diner after she'd cut through the kitchen. The banging pots and pans and shouts of the staff had been muted by the pounding of her own heart in her ears as she'd darted out the back door.

And then she'd seen him a block away, running her direction.

Run. She'd done exactly that, crisscrossing the back alleys of the Quarter that she knew so well.

Cora loved New Orleans. She never wanted to leave.

But she might have to. The city was no longer safe for her.

This morning had proved that.

She turned onto Bienville, passing her favorite bakery without even stopping to look in the window. As usual, there was a line of people waiting for cupcakes, and she used them as a shield, mumbling apologies as she slipped through the line to get to the alley behind the bakery.

She was finally alone. She leaned against the bakery's delivery van, drawing the first full breath since the intruder had shoved past Joy into the boss's office, demanding to know where "the Winslow woman" was hiding.

Cora's throat closed. I should have stayed with her. But Joy had told her to run and Cora had suddenly been a teenager again, obeying the woman who'd been one of her mother's dearest friends. Joy had insisted that the man in her boss's office would soon realize that everything in there was locked down tight and abandon his search. That she was armed and could take care of herself.

Run before he comes out. He doesn't want me. He wants you. Run, girl. Now.

So Cora had run.

At least she'd called 911 before she'd taken off. The cops would come and help.

Drawing another deep breath, Cora shook out her cloak, draping it over her arm. She was sweating despite the morning chill.

Tandy would know something was wrong. They'd been best friends since the third grade. Nobody knew her better. Nobody that was still alive, anyway.

Move. Get to the gallery. Think of a reason you look like you ran through the city like you were being chased.

"Ma'am?"

Cora wheeled around to find a young man giving her a troubled look. "Yes?" Her voice was full of residual fear.

The young man worked at the bakery, if his Marica's T-shirt was any indication. He was tall and lanky, like he still needed to grow into his frame. But his blue eyes were kind. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"I'm okay. Just…" She managed a smile. "Can't do crowds." It was a lie. She'd grown up in New Orleans and crowds were a fact of life.

He didn't look convinced. "Can I call somebody to help you?"

She must have looked as bad as she felt. "No, thank you. I'm really fine. Have a good day."

She set off at a brisk walk, ignoring his repeated offer to call someone for her.

Great. A witness. She looked around and sighed. There were cameras everywhere. Her flight from Broussard Investigations had undoubtedly been captured.

You didn't do anything wrong.

Except leave Joy behind.

She turned another corner into another alley, only pausing when she emerged onto Royal Street, Tandy's gallery now within sight. Her friend didn't open the front doors until ten, but she'd be there already, doing the books or inventory or whatever tasks needed to be done.

She'll know something's wrong. She hadn't told Tandy that she was going to see a private investigator because her best friend was a worrier. Then Tandy would tell her father and they'd both smother Cora with concern and Cora hated that. Their concern always made her feel helpless and she wasn't helpless, dammit. She'd been taking care of herself for a long, long time.

Besides, she hadn't even been sure she had a valid reason for her fear. Not until this morning.

Now…well, Tandy was going to be mad that Cora had kept this from her.

Slipping the burner phone into her pocket, Cora pulled the pins from her hair, releasing the braids she'd put up that morning so that she could wear the black wig.

Just in case whoever had been messing with her house was watching her.

Uneasy now, she looked around, searching for the man who'd chased her. All she saw were a few tourists, out early to gape at the sights.

Working the braids in her hair free, she knocked on the front door of Tandy's gallery, but it was dark inside and there was no sign of anyone inside. Cora frowned. Tandy was always in her office by eight a.m.

I need to get off the street.

Just because she didn't see the man who'd chased her didn't mean he wasn't out there.

She race-walked to the next alley and to the gallery's back door. Punching in the keypad code, she let herself into the storeroom that doubled as Tandy's office and disabled the alarm, then locked the door and reset the alarm. It was a security door and the windows were hurricane glass. Nobody was getting in.

She sank into Tandy's desk chair. I'm safe. And now she could think.

She'd run this morning, like a coward. She needed to make sure that Joy was all right. Setting the burner aside, she dialed Joy's cell from her personal phone, but it rang and rang. New dread made it hard to breathe once more.

"Answer your phone, Joy," she muttered, but it went to voicemail.

I shouldn't have run.

She had started to leave a message when her cell rang. It was Tandy.

"Where are you?" Cora demanded, not even saying hello.

"In an Uber on my way to the hospital. Why are you in my office? Are you all right?"

Cora lurched to her feet and stared into the camera in the corner of the office. Tandy could see the live feeds on her phone. "Am I all right? Are you all right? Why are you going to the hospital?"

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.

A door opened, but Phin didn't look up. Not until a cold nose pressed against his arm, a rough tongue licking his skin.

The explosions faded. The screams and pleas subsided. He could hear himself think again. He shuddered out a breath, choking back a sob.

SodaPop.

Phin's hands were in the golden retriever's coat before he was even aware he'd moved, and he pressed his face against her neck. Phin hadn't wanted to be dependent on the dog.

Except that he was. In six short weeks, SodaPop had become his lifeline.

Phin found that he could draw air deep into his lungs.

I'm okay.

He would be, anyway.

Wiping his wet eyes, he looked up. The detective who'd first brought him in was watching him with sympathy. Not pity. Phin knew the difference.

Detective Clancy sat at the table. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks."

"I served. Iraq in the nineties." Clancy shrugged. "PTSD's a bitch. You should have asked for your dog when we first brought you in."

"I don't think I was capable of that then," Phin said honestly.

"Yeah. I get that, too." Then one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "Your friend Stone's wife brought the dog in. The desk sergeant told her that she couldn't bring the dog into the station. I understand she read him the riot act."

"Yeah, Delores is a force of nature." Stone's wife was a tiny little thing. Looked like Tinker Bell, but she did not suffer fools. "She trained SodaPop to be a service dog."

For me. For free. Phin still couldn't believe it. It was the most amazing gift.

"They care about you, your friends," Clancy said. "Not just Stone and Delores. Burke and his crowd, too. I've gotten calls every ten minutes from one of them, demanding that I ‘release you.'?"

Sitting up straighter, Phin lifted his brows. "Will you?"

"You're not under arrest, Mr. Bishop. I told you that, but I don't think you heard me."

Phin remembered now. "Sorry."

"No need. Can you talk to me now?"

Phin's hands kept stroking SodaPop's fur as the dog sat at his side, leaning into him. Nuzzling him. "Yes."

"Okay. So, from the beginning. You and Stone O'Bannion were approaching Broussard's building. And then?"

"The door flew open. Made a loud cracking sound. Nearly sent me into a spiral, but then I saw the woman running out and I was distracted. She wore an old-fashioned cloak. Like Red Riding Hood, but gray. The hood covered her face, but her hair was black. Then we heard two shots, so we ran into the building and up the stairs. Joy was on the floor. Bleeding. So I helped her."

"Medics said you and your friend probably saved her life."

Phin's chest loosened. "She's alive?"

Clancy nodded. "She is. Still in surgery, though."

Still in surgery wasn't good. But Joy wasn't dead, so he'd hang on to that. "You don't think I did it?" Phin hated that he sounded so hopeful. Like a goddamn kid.

"No. Broussard's cameras, along with some street cams, corroborated your story."

Phin dropped his gaze to SodaPop, who licked his hand. "The cops got there really fast after Stone called them." That had confused him. "Too fast."

"Because someone had placed a call to 911 three minutes before you arrived. A woman. She was whispering that there was an intruder at Broussard's."

"So I didn't imagine her." He'd been so afraid that he had.

Clancy's smile was kind. "No, Mr. Bishop. You didn't. The cameras captured the woman running away and the man in black chasing her. I'm sorry it took so long to get all the security footage together, but you're clear. And you've given your statement, so you're free to go."

Phin got to his feet so fast that his chair fell to the floor with a clang. He righted it, then took SodaPop's leash. "No offense, but I'm out of here."

Clancy stood and handed Phin his card. "Call me if you remember anything more."

Phin followed Clancy to the lobby, where Stone and Delores were impatiently waiting for him. They both rose, Stone giving him a look of concern and enough space so that Phin could approach them.

Delores, not so much. She ran to him, stopping short of hugging him. Phin could see that she wanted to, but she knew not to touch him when he wasn't expecting it. But he thought that she needed the hug more than he did, so he bent down to pull her close.

She was only five feet tall on the outside, but on the inside the woman was a warrior. She buried her face against his neck and let out a long breath.

"You're okay," she murmured, then pulled back, wiping her eyes. "SodaPop helped?"

"She did. I should have brought her with me today. As usual, you were right."

She pulled herself to her full tiny height. "And don't you forget it."

Phin felt his mouth tug up into a grin. "I won't."

She scowled. "That boss of yours is here. Him and the IT guy."

Phin scanned the room and, sure enough, Burke was standing with Antoine Holmes. Burke looked wrecked and Antoine didn't look any better.

Burke didn't trust you.

Stone ambled over, glancing behind his shoulder at Burke and Antoine before meeting Phin's gaze. "Your boss feels real bad."

"As he should," Delores scowled.

Phin rubbed her forehead with his index finger. "You're going to get frown lines. It's all right, Delores."

But it really wasn't. That Burke had, even for a moment, believed he could hurt anyone—much less Joy—hurt. A lot.

"Burke was an asshole this morning," Stone said quietly. "But the way I see it, you can either walk away from them or you can work on patching things up. For what it's worth, I want you to come back to Cincinnati with us, so I might not give you the best advice here."

Phin found himself chuckling. "Honest as always."

"You got that right."

Phin met Burke's eyes across the lobby, his boss's contrition laid bare. Phin knew which option he needed to take. "He's been a good friend to me over the past two years," he murmured. "He's welcomed me back every time I've run, and he's given me support and opportunities. He even got me a therapist. And he's human, just like me."

"So no Cincinnati?" Stone asked.

"Not just yet. But soon." Because Cincinnati was Phin's hometown. His family was still there and he fully intended to return. When he was ready.

He still wasn't ready. He'd run from his family—his loving, caring family—just like he'd run from Burke and his New Orleans friends. Every time he felt an episode coming on, he took off.

Every time things got too heavy, he ran.

He'd make things right with Burke. And Joy. And then he'd go home and make things right with his family.

"What are you thinking?" Delores asked suspiciously.

"That I'm going to find out who hurt Joy. I'm going to prove that it wasn't me."

"Nobody believes it was you," Stone said.

But Burke had. For just a moment, he had.

"I still want to make this right. If I'd been there, I would have stopped that bastard from hurting Joy."

Stone sighed. "I'm not going to be able to talk sense into you, am I?"

"Nope."

Delores folded her arms across her chest, sending another glare in Burke's direction. "Then we'll help you. We'll stay with you until you've made this right."

Phin blinked. "You don't have to do that."

"Neither do you," Delores said, lifting her chin.

Stone's lips twitched. "You're not going to be able to talk sense into her, either. Come on. Let's make nice with Antoine and your boss. Delores, try to look like you don't want to rip them apart."

"I'm not that good an actress," Delores snarked, but schooled her features into a polite mask.

Together, the three of them—and SodaPop—approached Burke and Antoine.

Antoine was the first to smile. "Phin, my man. It's good to see you. We've missed you."

Phin gave Antoine a one-armed hug. Another army vet, Antoine had been the one to get Phin his job at Burke's two years before. Antoine and Stone went way back, and all it had taken was a single phone call from Stone and Phin had a new start in New Orleans.

Phin owed his work family a lot. He was going to make this right. "Burke, it's okay."

Burke's eyes were filled with sorrow. "No, it's not. I'm sorry, Phin."

"Phin's going to try to find Joy's attacker on his own," Delores snapped. "Because he thinks you don't trust him."

Burke's and Antoine's eyes widened, and Phin sighed. "Thanks, Delores."

"You will not go after that bastard," Burke snapped back. "He's dangerous."

Phin got that. He could still feel Joy's blood dripping from his hands. "I know. But I owe it to Joy."

"Let's discuss this elsewhere," Antoine said reasonably. "Because I'm thinking the cops don't need to be hearing any of this."

It was true. Phin wasn't sure what he'd been thinking, speaking his thoughts aloud in a police station. "That's fine. Can I bring SodaPop?"

Burke nodded, his shoulders sagging a little in what seemed like relief. "Absolutely. She's your service dog. She goes where you go. Come on."

They'd turned for the exit when something caught Phin's eye. A woman was walking past them, her expression angry, her curly red hair bouncing with each step. The elderly man at her side wore a snazzy suit and a weary expression as he tried to keep pace with her.

The two strode to the glass door ahead of them and the woman shoved it open, taking to the street at a fast walk, the man now jogging to keep up with her. She had a gray cloak draped over her arm. His gaze slid down her body to calves that were familiar. And then Phin noticed her feet—with their gray, three-inch heels.

"That's her," Phin said, running for the door, SodaPop trotting along beside him.

"Who?" Delores demanded from behind him.

"The woman from this morning. The woman who ran away."

Phin wasn't letting her run away again.

Comments

0 Comments
Best Newest

Contents
Settings
  • T
  • T
  • T
  • T
Font

Welcome to FullEpub

Create or log into your account to access terrific novels and protect your data

Don’t Have an account?
Click above to create an account.

lf you continue, you are agreeing to the
Terms Of Use and Privacy Policy.