'Have you talked to Dad about this?'
'I talked to him about The Seven. He says no such group exists-now or ever.'
'But you don't believe him?'
Just considering the question felt like a betrayal. 'It's not that, I just…I'm thinking he's out of the loop.'
'Dad? Out of the loop in this town?'
'Listen to me, Hunter. The day I drove into Cypress Springs, the first thing I thought was that the town hadn't changed. Like it hadn't been touched by time.' She paused, then went on. 'Since then, what's struck me is how homogeneous this town is. Look in the phone book. How many names do you recognize? It's all the same families as when we were kids.'
'What are you getting at, Avery?'
'What does it take to keep time from marching on, Hunter? What does one have to do?'
For a long moment he said nothing. His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured.
'Avery, listen to me. I want you to think about what I'm about to ask you. What would you get out of this? If it's true.'
'I don't understand.'
'If your dad was killed by this…Seven, what would you get out of it?'
She began to tell him she would get nothing out of it, then swallowed the words.
If he hadn 't taken his own life, she would be absolved from guilt.
Avery fisted her fingers, furious at the thought. At the longing that accompanied it. She pushed both away. 'You think I want Dad to have been murdered? You think I want Cypress Springs to be home to some murdering, extremist group?'
His expression said it all and she shook her head. 'I don't, okay? How awful, how-'
She bit those words back, searching for others, though whether to convince him or herself she didn't know.
'I was always on the outside, Hunter. I never fit in here, never felt like I really belonged. Now I do. Now Cypress Springs feels like home.'
He stood. Crossed to her. Cupped her face in his hands. 'Grief twists reality.'
'I know, but-'
'Don't do this to yourself, Avery.'
'I have to know. For sure. I wish I could trust…I know I should, but I can't.'
'Then get your proof. Of innocence or guilt. If that's what you need, get it.'
CHAPTER 36
Gwen glanced at her dashboard clock. The amber numbers read 10:45. A knot of fear settled in her belly. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her palms slippery on the vinyl.
The woman had warned her to come alone. She had promised information about The Seven, past and present.
Information about Tom.
Gwen acknowledged that she was scared shitless. She pressed her lips together. They trembled. Tom had disappeared on just such an errand, on just such a promise. Like hers, his meeting time had been a late hour, his destination a deserted spot off an unnamed country road.
If not for Tom, she wouldn 't go. She would simply keep driving, not stopping until she reached the lights of New Orleans.
She had grown to hate Cypress Springs. The quaint buildings and town square, the people whose welcoming smiles hid judgment and suspicion. The sour smell that inundated the community when the wind shifted from the south. The way people went about their business, pretending it didn't exist.
Gwen realized she was holding her breath and released it. She drew another, deeply, working to calm herself. She was alone. No allies. No one to share her fears with. Avery Chauvin had been her last hope for that.
That hope had been abruptly squashed.
Another dead. Trudy Pruitt.
They had cut out her tongue.
Gwen had heard that this morning, while breakfasting at the Azalea Cafe. She had been devastated.
The woman had been killed only a matter of hours after having met with Gwen. After having confirmed the past and present existence of The Seven. After confirming all of Gwen's suspicions: that a group of citizens met in secret and passed judgment on others, that they delivered one warning, that if it wasn't heeded, they took action, that they had never really disbanded-simply gone deeper underground. That in the past months they had become more active. And it seemed, more dangerous.
Guilt, a sense of responsibility, speared through her. If she hadn't come to Cypress Springs, if she hadn't tracked Trudy Pruitt down, would the woman be alive today?
Go, Gwen. Run. As fast as you can.
She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. Other than putting her own life and the lives of others in jeopardy, what was she accomplishing? She couldn't help her brother now. Anyone who might have been willing to talk would be too frightened to do so after Trudy Pruitt.
But if she ran, she would never know what happened to Tom.
And she didn't think she could go on with her life until she did.
So, here she was. Gwen focused her attention on the upcoming meeting. The woman's call had come late this afternoon. She had refused to identify herself. Her voice had been unsteady, thick-sounding. As if she had been crying.
Or was trying to disguise her identity.
She had claimed to have information about The Seven and Gwen's brother. Gwen had tried unsuccessfully to get more out of her.
Quite possibly, tonight's rendezvous would prove a setup.
Or an ambush.
Gwen squared her shoulders. She wouldn't go without a fight. She glanced at her windbreaker, lying on the seat beside her. Nestled in the right pocket was a.38-caliber Smith Wesson revolver. Hammerless, with a two-inch barrel, the salesman had called it the ladies' gun of choice. He had assured her it would be plenty effective against an attacker, particularly, she knew, if she had surprise on her side.
She had taken other precautions as well, sent e-mails to the sheriff's department, her family lawyer and her mother. She had updated each with what she had uncovered so far, where she was going tonight and why. She found it hard to believe that both a brother and sister disappearing from the same small community would fly.
Even if she was killed, she had turned up the heat.
Their rendezvous point, Highway 421 and No Name Road loomed before her. The woman had instructed her to turn onto No Name Road and drive a quarter mile to an unmarked dirt road. She would recognize it by the rusted-out hulk of a tractor at the corner. There, she was to take a right and drive another quarter mile to an abandoned hunting cabin.
Gwen turned onto No Name Road. Her headlights sliced across the roadway. Heavily wooded on either side, the light bounced off and through the branches of the cypress, pine and oak trees.
Some small creature darted in front of her vehicle. Gwen slammed on the brakes. Her tires screamed; her safety harness yanked tight, preventing her from hitting the steering wheel. The creature, a raccoon, she saw, made the side of the road and scurried into the brush.
Legs shaking, she eased the car forward, the dark seeming to swallow her. She strained to see beyond the scope of the headlights. The woman had warned her not to be late. It was nearly eleven now.
The drive came into view. She turned onto it, gravel crunching under her tires.
The cabin lay ahead, illuminated by her headlights. An Acadian, with a high, sloping roof and covered front porch. It looked a part of the landscape, as if it had been here forever. Rustic. Made of some durable wood, most
