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.

Excerpted from Buried Too Deep by Karen Rose Copyright © 2024 by Karen Rose. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.