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party to your far-fetched notions. Not anymore."
"Far-fetched? But "
"Yes, I'm sorry."
"I'm all alone, Avery. I need your help." The other woman's voice rose. "Please help me find my brother's
killer."
Avery squeezed her eyes shut. Against the desperation in the other woman's voice. The pain.
Trust the people you love. The people who love you.
"I wish I could, Gwen. My heart breaks for you, but "
"Please. I don't have anyone else."
She felt herself wavering; she steeled herself against sympathy. "I really can't talk right now. I'm sorry."
Avery hung up. She realized she was shaking and drew in a deep breath. She had done the right thing.
Pain shaped reality her pain, Gwen's. The woman had focused her energy on this conspiracy theory as
a way to lessen her pain. To turn her attention away from grief.
Avery had been drawn in for the same reason.
The phone rang again. Gwen. To plead her case. As much as she preferred to avoid the woman, she
needed to face this. This was part of getting her act together.
She answered without greeting. "Look, Gwen, I don't know how to make it more plain "
"How does it feel to be the daughter of a liar and murderer?"
The breath hissed past Avery's lips, she took an involuntary step backward. "Who is this?" she
demanded, voice quaking.
"I'm someone who knows the truth," the woman said, then laughed, the sound unpleasant. "And there
aren't many of us left. We're dropping like flies."
"You're the liar," Avery shot back. Outrage took her breath, fury on its heels. "My father was an
honorable man. The most honest man I've ever known. Not a coward who's too afraid to show her
face."
"I'm no coward. You're the "
"You are. Hiding behind lies. Hiding behind the phone, making accusations against a man who can't
defend himself."
"What about my boys!" she cried. "They couldn't defend themselves! Nobody cared about them!"
"I don't know who your boys are, so I can't comment "
"Were," she hissed. "They're dead. Both my boys...dead. And your father's one of the ones to blame!"
Avery struggled not to take the defensive. To remain unemotional, challenge the woman in a way that
would draw her out, get her to reveal her identity. "If you had any proof my dad was a mur-
derer, you wouldn't be hiding behind this phone call. Maybe if I knew your sons' names I'd be more
likely to think you were more than a pathetic crank."
"Donny and Dylan Pruitt," she spat. "They didn't kill Sallie Waguespack. They didn't even know her."
The Waguespack murder.
Dear God, the box of clippings.
Avery's hands began to shake. She tightened her grip on the receiver. "What did my father have to do
with this?"
"Your daddy helped cover up for the real killer." The woman cackled. "So much for the most honest man
you've ever known."
"It's not true," Avery said. "You're a liar."
"Why do you think my boys never stood trial?" she demanded. '"Cause they didn't do it. They was
framed. None of it would have stood up to judge and jury. And all of them, those hypocrite do-gooders,
would have gone to jail!"
"If you had any proof, you'd show it to me."
"I have proof, all right. Plenty of proof."
"Sure you do."
At the sarcasm, the woman became enraged. "To hell with you and your dead daddy. You're like the rest
of 'em. Lying hypocrites. I tell you what I got and you'll bring the authorities down on me like white on
rice."
Avery tried a different tack. "Why do you think I left Cypress Springs? I'm not one of them. I never
was." She let that sink in. "If what you're telling me is true, I'll make it right."
"What's in it for you?"
"I clear my father's name."
The woman said nothing. Avery pressed on. "You want justice for your boys?"
"In this town? Ain't no justice for a Pruitt in this town. Hell, ain't no real justice to be had in Cypress
Springs."
"Show me what you've got," Avery urged. "You've got proof, I'll make it right. I promise you that."
She was quiet a moment. "Not over the phone," she said finally-"Meet me. Tonight." She quickly gave an
address, then hung up.
CHAPTER 33
Magnolia Acres trailer park was located on the southern boundary of Cypress Springs, just outside the
incorporated area. Avery turned into the park, noting that the safety light at its entrance was burned out.
Or had been shot out by kids with BB guns, she thought, seeing that all the park's safety lights were dark.
She made her way slowly down the street, straining to make out the numbers. Even the dark couldn't
soften the forlorn, abandoned look of the area. The only thing the neighborhood had going for it, Avery
thought, was the large lot given each residence. But even those had a quality of runaway disrepair about
them. The weeds were winning.
She found number 12 and parked in front. Avery climbed out. Music came from several directions: rap,
rock and country. From an adjacent trailer came the sound of a couple fighting. A child crying.
Avery slammed the car door and started toward the trailer, scan-ning the area as she did, noting details.
Dead flowers in the single window box. A pitiable attempt at a garden: a few shrubs that badly need
trimming, weeds, a rock border, half overgrown. Three steps led up to the front door. A concrete frog
sat on the top step.
She neared the door, saw that it stood slightly ajar. Light spilled from inside. As did the smell of fried
food.
She climbed the steps, knocked on the door and it swung open. "Mrs. Pruitt," she called. "It's Avery
Chauvin."
No answer. She knocked and called out again, this time more loudly.
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