Before she could respond he added "I know damned good 'n well I buried that shit good!"
"What are you talking about honey?"
"Oh nothing. It must be the heat." But it was too late. She now knew he wasn't the gool little local yocal he claimed to be. A cajun can run from his past, but he can never keep the coon dogs from dragging up skunk hides, and that shit stinks like mamma's leftover surprise a week after chicken gizzards are on sale at the local grocer. He eased back into the porch swing, but he knew he had to work fast if he was going to cover his tracks. He had one week left until. . .