Erica Spindler (25 page)

A
very decided to spend the morning going through her parents' attic, separating things she wanted to save from those she would donate to charity or toss. If she ever intended to put the house up for sale, it had to be done. Besides, she needed something to occupy her hands while she mentally reviewed the events of the past few days.

The pieces fit together; she just hadn't figured out how. Not yet. This was no different from any story she had ever tackled. A puzzle to be solved, assembled from bits of information gleaned from a variety of sources. The meaning of some of those bits obvious, others obtuse. Some would prove unrelated, some surprisingly key.

In the end, every story required a cognitive leap. That
ah-ha
moment when the pieces all fell into place—with or without the facts to back them up. That moment when she simply
knew
.

Avery climbed the stairs. When she reached the top, she glanced toward her parents' bedroom. At the unmade bed. She stared at it a moment, then turned quickly away and started toward the end of the hall and the door to the attic stairs. She unlocked and opened the door, then headed up.

It was only March, but the attic was warm, the air heavy. During the summer months it would be unbearable. She moved her gaze over the rows of neatly stacked boxes, the racks of bagged clothes. From hooks hung holiday decorations: wreaths, wind socks and flags, one wall for each season. Evenly spaced aisles between the boxes.

So neatly organized, she thought. Her mother had been like that. Precise. Orderly. Never a hair out of place or social grace forgotten. No wonder the two of them butted heads so often. They'd had almost nothing in common.

Avery began picking through the boxes. She settled first on one filled with books. While she sorted through them, she pondered the newspaper she and Gwen had found in Trudy Pruitt's bedroom, the woman's cryptic notation. The hatchet marks. The words
All but two
. Trudy Pruitt had been counting the dead. Avery felt certain of that.

All but two who knew the truth about the Waguespack murder? It made sense in light of what she had said on the phone, that those who knew were dropping like flies. But, she could also have been counting the passing of people she hated. Or ones she feared. Or people she believed responsible for her sons' deaths.

The last rang true, made sense. Trudy Pruitt had been consumed by that event, that had been obvious to Avery. Had she found the note that had been written on the article about her father's suicide before the woman's murder, she would have considered Trudy Pruitt a suspect in his death as well as that of the others.

But she hadn't. Nor did she believe the woman had been smart or sophisticated enough to have pulled off the murders. Not alone, anyway.

Avery's fingers stilled. An accomplice. That could be. Perhaps the accomplice had decided Trudy Pruitt had outlived her usefulness. Or had become a liability.

Hunter
. He'd left a message for her. Had he simply been returning the woman's call, as he claimed?

His explanation was plausible. She wanted it to be true. Wanted it in a way that was anything but uninvolved. Anything but unemotional.

Avery squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to recall exactly what he'd said in the message. His full name and phone number. Not that he was returning her call.

But if they had been accomplices, surely he wouldn't have had to identify himself, the woman would have recognized his voice. And surely he wouldn't have identified himself with his full name, Hunter Stevens. Nor, she supposed, would he have had to give her his number.

She frowned, shifting absently through the box of books, most of them westerns. Her dad had loved the genre. He'd eaten them up, chewing through the paperback novels as fast as publishers could put them out.

Her mother had read, too. Not as voraciously, however. In truth, the book Avery remembered seeing her mother with most had been her journal. She had carried one everywhere, doggedly recording the moments and events of her life.

Her mother had dreamed of being a writer. She had shared that before Avery left for college. They had been arguing about Avery's decision to leave Cypress Springs—and Matt—behind.

At the time, Avery hadn't believed her mother. Now, she wondered.

She recalled the scene clearly. Her mother had shared that tidbit in the context of making choices in life. She had expected her daughter to follow in her footsteps—be the traditional Southern woman, wife and mother, community volunteer. She had expected Avery to acknowledge what was important.

Chasing a dream wasn't. A career wasn't.

She had urged her to marry Matt. Start a family. Look
at her, she had said. Where would Avery be if she had chased a career instead of marrying her father?

Perhaps she and her mother had had something in common, after all.

A headache started at the base of Avery's skull. She brought her hand to the back of her neck and rubbed the spot, recalling how their conversation had ended. They'd fought. It had been ugly.

“You took the easy way, Mom. You settled. I'm not going to be like you!”

And then, later,
“You never loved me, Mother. Not for me. You always tried to change me, make me like you. Well, it didn't work.”

Avery cringed, remembering the hateful words, recalling her mother's devastated expression. She had never taken those words back. Had never apologized.

And then it had been too late.

“Shit,” Avery muttered, regret so sharp and bitter she tasted it. She thought of what Hunter had said, that her father believed her unresolved issues with her mother had been the reason she'd visited so rarely. Had he been right? Had she been waiting for an apology? Or had she stayed away because she knew how badly she had hurt her mother and hadn't wanted to look her in the—

She had carried a journal everywhere, doggedly recording the moments and events of her life.

Of course, Avery thought. Her mother's journals. She would have noted Sallie Waguespack's death, its effect on the community and if her husband had somehow been involved.

But where were they? Avery had searched the house, emptied closets and drawers and bookcases. She hadn't seen even one of the journals. So, what had her father done with them?

Up here. Had to be.

Although she had already done a perfunctory search
of the attic, she started a more complete one now. She not only checked the notations on each box, she opened each to make certain the contents matched the labels.

By the time she had checked the last carton, she was hot, dirty and disappointed. Could her father have disposed of them? Or her mother, sometime before she died?

Maybe Lilah would know. Checking her watch, Avery headed downstairs to the phone. She dialed the Stevenses number and Lilah answered immediately.

“Hi, Lilah, it's Avery.”

“Avery! What a pleasant surprise. What are you up to this morning?”

“I'm working on the house, packing things up, and realized Mother's journals are missing.”

“Her journals? My goodness, I'd forgotten she used to do that.”

“So had I. Until this morning.”

“At one time she was quite committed to it. Remember the Sunday she pulled her journal out during Pastor Dastugue's sermon? We were all sitting right up front, he was so pleased.” The woman laughed lightly. “He thought she was taking notes.”

“What do you mean, she had been committed to it? Did she give it up?”

“Yes, indeed. Let me think.” The woman paused. “About the time you went off to university.”

Avery felt the words like a blow. About the time she went off to L.S.U. After their fight. After her mother had confided in Avery—and been met with disbelief and disdain.

“She never said anything, you understand,” Lilah continued. “I just noticed she didn't have one with her. When I asked, she said she had given it up.”

“Lilah, would you have any idea where she or Dad might have stored them?”

“Stored them?” The other woman sounded confused. “If they're not at the house, I imagine she got rid of them. Or your father, with the rest of her things.”

Avery's stomach fell at the thought. “I just can't imagine either of them—”

“We all thought him so strong, clearing out her things the way he did. The reminders were just all too painful.”

The doorbell rang. Avery ended the call and hurried to answer it.

Hunter stood at her door. She gazed at him through the screen, taking in his battered face. “My God, what happened to you?”

“Long story. Can I come in?”

“I don't think that's such a good idea.”

He looked away, then back at her. “I've got this problem, Avery. And it has to do with you.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “With me?”

“This morning Matt called me a dead man. And I realized it was true.” He paused. “Except when I'm with you.”

His words crashed over her. She laid her hand against the door frame for support, suddenly unbalanced. Light-headed. One second became two, became many.

“Avery,” he said softly. “Please.”

Wordlessly, she swung the screen door open. Was she letting in friend or foe? She didn't know, was simply acting on instinct. Or, if she was being honest, on longing. She moved aside as he entered and with shaky hands closed the door, using the moment to break their eye contact as she attempted to regain her equilibrium. She turned the dead bolt, took a deep breath and faced him. “I'll make us an iced tea.”

Without waiting for a response, she started for the kitchen.

Avery was acutely aware of him following her, watching her as she poured them both an iced tea, as she added
a wedge of lemon. She cleared her throat, turned and handed him the glass.

Their fingers brushed as he took the glass. He brought it to his lips; the ice clinked against its side as he drank.

She dragged her gaze away, heart thundering. “You and Matt got into it this morning.”

It wasn't a question. He answered anyway. “Yes. We fought about you.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

She shifted her gaze. Wet her lips.

“He wanted to know where I was night before last.”

“And did you tell him?”

“Of course. I was home working. Alone.” He set his glass on the counter. “I told you the truth this morning, Avery. Trudy Pruitt called me. I don't know why, but I assumed it was for legal counsel. I returned her call. I never even met the woman let alone killed her.”

“Is that what Matt thinks, that you killed her?”

“That's what he wants to think.”

She defended the other man. “I doubt that, Hunter. You're brothers. He's just doing his job.”

“Believe that if it makes you feel better.” He glanced away, then back. “He didn't think to check the woman's recorder. Yet, anyway. Are you going to tell him about the message?”

She wasn't, she realized. And not only because doing so would mean admitting to having broken and entered a posted crime scene.

She shook her head. “No.”

“I have to ask you something.”

“All right.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

She met his gaze. “That's a pretty shitty question, considering.”

“He's acting awfully possessive.”

“So are you.”

He took a step toward her. “But we
are
sleeping together.”

Her mouth went dry. “Did,” she corrected. “One time. Besides, would it matter to you if we were?”

“Ditto on the pretty shitty question.”

“No,” she answered. “I'm not.”

He brought a hand to the back of her neck and drew her toward him. “Yes,” he murmured. “It would.”

Heart thundering against the wall of her chest, she trailed her fingers across his bruised jaw. “Who threw the first punch?”

“He did. But I goaded him into it.”

She laughed softly. Not because it was funny, but because it was so true to the boys she had known all those years ago. “Well, frankly, you look like he kicked your ass.”

“Yeah, but you should see him.”

Avery laughed again. “By the way,” she murmured, “I believe you. About your call to Trudy Pruitt.”

“Thank you.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Does this mean we can revisit the sleeping-together versus the slept-together thing?”

“You're awful.”

His smile faded. “Matt accused me of being jealous of him. Of his relationship with you. With our parents. Jealous of his ability to lead. He suggested envy was at the root of everything that's happened between the two of us. That I withdrew from the family because of it.”

She rested her hands on his chest, her right palm over his heart. “And what did you tell him?”

“That it was bullshit.” He cupped her face in his palms. “I always wanted you. But you chose Matt. And he was my brother.”

The simple honesty inherent in those words rang true. They touched her. They spoke to the man he was. And the relationship he and Matt had shared.

In light of her intense feelings for Hunter, she wondered what would have happened all those years ago if Hunter had made a play for her. She wondered where they would all be today.

“What about now, Avery? I have to know, do you still belong to my brother?”

She answered without words. She stood on tiptoe, pressed her mouth to his, kissing him deeply. She slid her hands to his shoulders. He tensed, wincing.

She drew away. “You're hurt.”

“It's nothing. A few cuts.”

“Turn around.” When he tried to balk, she cut him off. “Now, please.”

He did. She lifted his shirt and made a sound of dismay. Cuts riddled his back and shoulders, some of them jagged and ugly. “How did this happen?”

“It's no big deal.”