Erica Spindler (8 page)

A
very left the ranch a short time later. Cherry told her to go ahead and take her mother's car—after one of these spells her mother didn't go out for days anyway.

As she drove through town, Avery couldn't stop thinking about what Cherry had said. About Hunter coming back to punish them. She'd dismissed Cherry's earlier claim, but now Avery couldn't put the image of Lilah's devastation out of her mind.

And the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. How could Hunter treat his family that way? All they had ever done was love and support him.

She didn't care if she had been gone for twelve years, she wasn't going to let him get away with it. The Stevenses were the closest thing to a family she had left, and she wasn't about to stand back and let Hunter hurt them.

She reached Walton Street, took a left, heading back toward Johnson. She found a parking spot a couple doors down from what had been Barker's Flower Shop. She angled into the spot and climbed out.

Barker's had been Cypress Springs' preferred florist during Avery's high-school years. Every corsage she'd worn had come from this shop.

And they'd all been from Matt, she realized. Every last one of them.

She reached the shop and felt a moment of loss at the empty front window. She used to love peering through at the buckets of cut flowers.

She tried the door. And found it locked. A cardboard clock face propped in the window proclaimed
Will Return At
—

Problem was the clock's hour hand was missing.

Cherry had said that Hunter used the front of the shop as his law office and lived in the back. If she remembered correctly, the Barkers had done the same. No doubt, the residence was accessed from the rear.

She went around back, to the service alley. Sure enough, the rear had been set up as a residential entrance.

She crossed to it and found the outer door stood open to allow fresh air in through the screen. She knocked on the door frame. “Hunter?” she called out. “It's Avery.”

From inside came a scuffling, followed by a whimper. She frowned and knocked again. “Hunter? Is that you?”

The whimpering came again. She leaned closer and peered through the dirty screen. The room immediately beyond the door was a kitchen. It appeared empty.

From inside came a thud. Like something hitting the floor.

Something? Or someone?

Reacting, she tried the screen door, found it unlocked and pushed it open. She stepped through. Save for a handful of dishes in the sink, the kitchen was as neat as a pin.

Heart pounding, she made her way through the room. “Hunter?” she called again, softly. “It's Avery. Are you all right?”

This time, silence answered. No whimper, whine or scuffle.

Not good
.

She rushed through the doorway to the next room and stopped short. The biggest, mangiest dog she had ever
seen blocked her way, teeth barred. The beast growled low in its throat and Avery's stomach dropped to her toes.

She took a step back.

Whimpering from behind the dog drew her gaze. On a blanket shoved into the corner lay a half-dozen squirming pups, so young their eyes weren't open yet.

“It's okay, girl,” Avery said gently, returning her gaze to the mama. “I won't hurt your pups.”

The dog cocked its head as if deciding if Avery could be trusted, then turned and loped back to her babies. She flopped onto her side on the floor and the pups began rooting for a teat. With a heavy sigh, she thumped her tail—which was as thick as a broom handle—once against the wooden floor.

Avery shook her head, feeling more than a little ridiculous. What an imagination she had. Big bad Avery, rushing in to save the day.

She turned away from the nursing dog to take in the room. Neat but spartan, she thought. A shabby but comfortable mishmash of furniture and styles. An ancient-looking couch in a shade that had probably once been a bright gold, but could now only be described as vomit colored. A beat-up coffee table. And a beautiful, butter-colored leather easy chair.

Left over from the good old days, she would bet. The piece he hadn't been able to get rid of.

She turned. A makeshift desk and file cabinet had been set up in the corner behind her. A computer rested atop the desk, screen dark. Beside the PC sat a stack of printer paper, a couple inches thick.

Curious, she crossed to the desk. A manuscript, she saw. She tipped her head to read.
Breaking Point.
A novel by Hunter Stevens.

Hunter was writing a novel? Why hadn't Matt or Cherry mentioned it?

Maybe they didn't—

“Come right in,” Hunter said from behind her. “Make yourself at home.”

Avery whirled around, hand to her throat. “Hunter!”

“You sound so surprised to see me. Were you expecting someone else?”

“This isn't how it looks. I didn't mean to—”

“To what?” he asked. “Break and enter?”

Cheeks burning, she tilted up her chin. “It wasn't like that. I can explain.”

“Sure you can.” He stalked past her, retrieved the manuscript and placed it in a file drawer. Avery noticed the way he handled the pages—carefully, with something akin to reverence.

“I didn't read anything but the title,” she said softly. “And I didn't break in. The door was open.”

He locked the drawer, pocketed the key then turned and faced her, arms folded across his chest. “How careless of me.”

“I stopped by. And I heard a sound from inside. A…cry, then a thud. Like someone…falling. I thought you—”

At his disbelieving expression, she made a sound of frustration. “It was the dog and her pups I heard. I thought, you know, that something was wrong.”

“Sarah?” He glanced over at the dog. At the sound of her name, the canine looked up and slapped her tail against the floor.

“See?” Avery said. “That's what I heard.”

He smiled then, taking her by surprise. “You're right, that is a scary noise. Did you think the boogeyman had gotten me? Was big bad Avery going to rush in and save the day?”

The curving of his lips changed him into the young man she remembered from all those years ago and she returned his smile. “Why not? It could happen. I carry pepper spray. Besides, if you recall, I'm not one of those
prissy, sissy girls like you dated in high school. Hunter,” she mocked in an exaggerated drawl, “you're so big and strong. I don't know what I would do without you to protect me.”

He laughed. “True, I would never call you prissy.”

“Thank you for that.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “For the other night. I acted like an ass.”

“A bastard
and
an ass, actually. Apology accepted anyway.”

The dog stood, shook off a last greedy pup and ambled over to Hunter. She looked adoringly up at him. He squatted beside her and scratched behind her ears. She practically swooned with delight.

Avery watched the two, thinking Hunter couldn't be quite as heartless as he acted. “She seems devoted to you.”

“It's mutual. I found her when she was as down and out on her luck as I was. Figured we made a good pair.”

Silence fell between them. Avery longed to ask about the circumstances that had brought him to this place, but didn't want to spoil the moment of camaraderie.

She chose a safer topic instead, motioning toward the computer. “Your family didn't mention that you were writing a novel.”

“They don't know. No one does. Unless, like you they make a habit of breaking and entering.” He straightened. Sarah remained by his feet. “And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell them.”

“If that's what you want. But I'm sure if they knew they'd be nothing but supporti—”

“It is what I want.”

“All right.” She tilted her head. “The book, what's it about?”

“It's a thriller.” He didn't blink. “About a lawyer who goes off the deep end.”

“It's autobiographical then?”

“What are you doing here, Avery?”

She decided that beating around the bush would be a waste of time. “I want to talk to you about your mother.”

“There's a shock.”

She stiffened at his sarcasm. “I saw the two of you this morning. Arguing. She was really upset, Hunter. Hysterical, actually.”

He didn't respond. Not with surprise or remorse. Not with concern or guilt. His impassive expression made her blood boil. “You don't have a comment about that?”

“No.”

“She couldn't even drive, Hunter. I had to take her home.”

“What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?”

“For starters.”

“That's not happening. Anything else?”

She stared at him, stunned. That he could be so unfeeling toward his mother. So careless toward those who loved him.

She told him so and he laughed. “That's rich. The pot calling the kettle black.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what it means. Where have you been the last few years, Avery?”

She saw what he was doing and backed off, not about to let him divert the conversation. “We're not talking about me here, Hunter. We're talking about you. About you blaming everyone but yourself for your problems. Why don't you grow up?”

“Why don't you butt out, Ms. Big-City Reporter? Head back to your important job. Your life isn't here. It never was.”

Stung, she struck back. “You're lucky you have such a great family. A family who loves you. One willing to stick by you even when you're such a colossal jackass. Why don't you show a little gratitude?”

“Gratitude?” He laughed, the sound hard. “Great family? For an investigative reporter you're pretty damn obtuse.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. “No family is perfect. But at least they've stayed committed to one another. They've tried to be there for one another, through thick and thin.”

“When did you become such an expert on my family? You've only been here, what? A week? Wait!” He brought his fingertips to his forehead. “I've got it! You're psychic?”

“It's senseless to even try to have a conversation with you.” She started toward the door. “I'm out of here.”

“Of course you are. That's your MO, isn't it, Avery?”

She froze, then turned slowly to face him. “Excuse me?”

“Where have you been the past twelve years?”

“In case you haven't noticed, Cypress Springs isn't exactly the place to have a career in journalism.”

He took a step toward her. “You're a fine one to scold me about how I treat my mother. Look at how you treated yours. How many times did you visit her after you moved away?”

“I called. I visited when I could. I couldn't just take off whenever the mood struck.”

“How long did you stay after her funeral, Avery? Twenty-four hours? Or was it thirty-six?”

She swung toward the door; he followed her, grabbing her arm when she reached it. “And where were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself on fire?”

A cry spilled past her lips. She tugged against his hand. He tightened his grip. “Your dad needed you. And you weren't here.”

“What do you know about my father! About how he felt or what he needed!”

“I know more than you could imagine.” He released her and she stumbled backward. “I bet you didn't know that your dad and mine weren't even on speaking terms. That it had gotten so bad between them that if one saw the other coming on the street, he would cross to the other side to avoid making eye contact. I bet neither Matt nor Buddy told you that.”

“Stop it, Hunter.” She backed toward the door.

“I bet they didn't tell you that my parents haven't shared a bed in over a decade. Or that Mom's addicted to painkillers and booze.” He laughed bitterly. “Dad's played the part of the jovial, small-town cop so long, he wouldn't recognize an authentic thought or feeling if it shouted his name. Matt's trying his damnedest to follow in the old man's footsteps and is so deeply in denial it's frightening. And Cherry, poor girl, has sacrificed her life to holding the dysfunctional lot together.

“Great family,” he finished. “As American as apple pie and Prozac.”

She stared at him, shaking with the force of her anger. “You're right. I wasn't here. And I hate myself for it. I would do anything, give anything, to change that. To bring them back. But I can't. I've lost them.”

She grasped the door handle, fighting not to cry. Determined not to let him know he had won. “I didn't believe what Cherry told me. That you'd come back just to punish them. I believe it now.”

He held out a hand. “Avery, I—”

“When did you become so cruel, Hunter?” she asked, cutting him off. “What happened to make you so hateful and small?”

Without waiting for an answer, she let herself out and walked away.

G
wen Lancaster stood at the window of her rented room and peered through the blinds at the gathering darkness. Lights in the buildings around the square began popping on. Gwen kept her own lights off; she preferred the dark. Preferred to watch in anonymity.

Did they know she was here? she wondered. Did they know who she was? That Tom had been her brother?

Had they realized yet that she would stop at nothing to find his killer?

As always, thoughts of her brother brought a lump to her throat. She swung away from the window, crossed to the desk and the Cypress Springs
Gazette
she had been reading. It lay open to the upcoming calendar of events. She had marked off those she planned to attend. First on the list was tonight's wake.

She shifted her gaze to the paper and the black-and-white image of a kindly-looking older man. The caption identified him as Dr. Phillip Chauvin. Survived by his only child, a daughter, Avery Chauvin.

The entire town would be in attendance tonight. She had heard people talking about it. Had learned that the man had committed suicide. And that he had been one of Cypress Springs' most beloved brothers.

Suicide. Her lips twisted. Cypress Springs, it seemed, was just that kind of town.

Fury rose up in her.
They
would most probably be there. The bastards who had taken her brother from her.

Tom had been working toward his doctorate in social psychology from Tulane University. He'd been writing his dissertation on vigilantism in small-town America. A story he'd uncovered in the course of his research had brought him to Cypress Springs.

A story about a group called The Seven. A group that had operated from the late 1980s to the early 1990s, systematically denying the civil rights of their fellow citizens in the name of law and order.

After only a matter of weeks in Cypress Springs, Tom had disappeared without a trace.

Gwen swallowed hard. That wasn't quite true. His body had disappeared. His car had been found on the side of a deserted stretch of highway in the next parish. It had been in running order. There'd been no sign of a struggle or an accident. The keys had been gone.

Both the Cypress Springs police and sheriff's department had investigated. They'd combed her brother's car and the surrounding area for evidence. They'd searched his rented room, interviewed his fellow boarders, worked to reconstruct the last days of his life. Neither suspect nor motive had emerged.

They told her they believed he had been the victim of a random act of violence—that Tom had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had promised not to close the case until they uncovered what happened to him.

Gwen had a different theory about his disappearance. She believed his research into The Seven had gotten him killed. That he had gotten too close to someone or something. She had talked to him only days before he disappeared. He'd found so much more than he'd expected, he had told her. He believed that The Seven was not a thing
of the past, but operating still. He had made an important contact; they were meeting the following night.

Gwen had begged him to be careful.

That had been the last time she'd heard his voice. The last time, she feared, she would ever hear his voice.

Although his research notes revealed nothing sinister, she hadn't a doubt his contact had either set him up or killed him.

Gwen brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. What if she was wrong? What if she simply needed someone—or something—she could point to and say they did it, that her brother was gone because of them. The therapist she had been seeing thought so. Hers was a common reaction, he'd said. The need to make sense out of a senseless act of violence. To create order out of chaos.

She dropped her hands, weary from her own thoughts. Chaos. That's what her life had become after Tom's disappearance.

She crossed back to the window. For several days city workers had been stringing lights in the trees. Tonight, it seemed, was the payoff. The thousands of twinkling lights snapped on, turning the town square into a fairyland.

It was so beautiful. Charming. A postcard-perfect community populated by the nicest people she had ever encountered.

It was a lie. An illusion. This place was not the idyllic paradise it seemed. People here were not the paragons they seemed.

And she would prove it. No matter what it cost her.