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.
Copyright © 2024 by Karen Rose. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
