Avery decided her first stop of the morning would be at the office of the Cypress Springs Gazette, located in a renovated storefront a block and a half off the square. Founded in June 1963, just months

before the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, a picture of the former president still hung in the front waiting area.

She stepped through the door and a bell tinkled, announcing her presence. The front counter stood

empty.

A tall, sandy-haired man appeared in the doorway to the newsroom. Behind his Harry Potter spectacles, his eyes widened. "Avery Chauvin? I was wondering if you were going to stop by for a visit."

"Rickey? Rickey Plaquamine? It's so good to see you."

He came around the counter and they hugged. She and Rickey had been in the same grade and had gone

to school together all their lives. They had worked together on the high-school newspaper, had both pursued journalism and attended Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. He, however, had opted to return to Cypress Springs after graduation, to report for the local paper.

"You haven't changed a bit," she said.

He patted his stomach. "Not if you ignore the thirty pounds I've gained. Ten with each one of Jeanette's pregnancies."

"Three? Last I heard-"

"We just had our third. Another boy."

"Three boys." She laughed. "Jeanette's got her hands full."

"You don't know the half of it." His smile faded. "Damn sorry about your dad. Sorry we didn't make the

service. The new one's got colic and the entire household's been turned upside down."

"It's okay." She shifted her gaze toward the newsroom. "Where's Sal?"

He looked surprised. "You didn't know? Sal passed away about six months ago."

"Passed away," she repeated, crestfallen. Sal had been a big supporter of hers and had encouraged her to go into journalism. With each advancement of her career, he'd written her a note of congratulations. In each, his pride in her accomplishments had come shining through. "I didn't know."

His mouth thinned. "Hunting accident."

Avery froze. Goose bumps crawled up her arms. "Hunting accident?"

"Opening day of deer season. Shot dead. In fact, the bullet took half Sal's head off."

Her stomach turned. "My God. Who was the shooter?"

"Don't know, never found the guy."

"Sounds like it could have been a homicide."

"That's not the way Buddy called it. Besides, who'd want Sal dead?"

Her father. Sal Mandina. Two men who had been pillars of the community, men the entire town had looked up to. Both dead in the past six months. Neither from natural causes.

Rickey cleared his throat. She shifted her attention to the task at hand. "I was doing a little research and wondered if I could take a look at the archived issues of the Gazette."

"Sure. What're you looking for?"

"The Waguespack murder."

"No kidding? How come?"

She debated a moment about her answer then decided on incomplete honesty, as she called partial truth.

"Dad saved a bunch of clippings-- I'd forgotten the entire incident and wanted to fill in the blanks." She

smiled brightly. "You mind?"

"Not at all- Come on." He led her back into the newsroom. From there they headed up to the second floor. "Biggest local news story we ever carried. I'm not surprised your dad kept clippings."

"Really? Why?"

"Because of the furor the murder caused in the community. Nobody escaped unchanged."

"That's what Buddy said."

"You talked to Buddy about it?"

Was that relief she heard in his voice? Or was she imagining it? "Sure. After all, he and Dad were best friends." He unlocked the storage-room door, opened it and switched on the light. She stepped inside. It smelled of old newspapers. The room was lined with shelves stacked with bound volumes of the Gazette. At the center of the room sat a long folding table, two chairs on either side. Her throat began to tickle, no doubt from the dust.

"Call me if you need me. I'm working on Saturday's edition. The spring Peewee soccer league is kicking into high gear. Pardon the pun." He pointed toward the far wall. "The 1980s are over there. They're arranged by date."

Avery thanked him, and when she was certain she was alone, she crossed to issues from the past eight months. She carried a stack to the table and sat. From her purse she took a steno pad and pen and laid them on the table.

She opened the volume for Wednesday, February 6 of this year. And found the story just where Gwen had said she would.

Young Man Missing Tom Lancaster, visiting grad student from Tulane University, went missing Sunday night. Sheriff's department fears foul play. Deputy Sheriff Matt Stevens suspects Lancaster a victim of a random act of violence. The investigation continues.

Avery sucked in a shaky breath. One truth did not fact make, she reminded herself. The best lies-or most insidious delusions-contained elements of truth. That element of believability sucked people in, made them open their wallets or ignore warning signs indicating something was amiss.

She found a number of stories about Sal's death. Since he'd been the Gazette's editor-in-chief, the biweekly had followed it closely. As Rickey had told her, he had been shot on the opening day of deer season. The guilty party had never been found, though every citizen who'd applied for a hunting license had been questioned. Buddy had determined Sal had been shot from a distance with a Browning .270-caliber A-bolt rifle. Both it and the Nosier Ballistic Tip bullet were local hunters' favorites. Closed-casket services had been held at Gallagher's.

Rickey had been wrong about one thing: Buddy had classified the death as a homicide.

For the next two hours she picked her way through the archived issues. What she found shook her to the core. Gwen Lancaster hadn't been fabricating. Avery picked up her notepad, scanning her notes. She had listed every death not attributed to natural causes. Kevin Gallagher had died this year, she saw. Danny Gallagher's dad. A car wreck on Highway 421, just outside of town. His Lexus had careened off the road and smashed into a tree. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt and had gone through the windshield.

Deputy Chief of Police Pat Greene had drowned. A woman named Dolly Farmer had hung herself. There'd been a couple more car wrecks, young people involved-both in the same area Sal had died. The city, she saw, had commissioned the state to reduce the speed limit along that stretch of highway.

She frowned. Another hanging-this one deemed accidental. The kid, it seemed, had been into autoeroticism. Another young person had OD'd. Pete Trimble had fallen off his tractor and been run over.

Avery laid the notepad on the table and brought a trembling hand to her mouth. Eight months, all this death. Ten of them. Thirteen if she tossed in Luke McDougal, Tom Lancaster and Elaine St. Claire.

She struggled for impartiality. Even so, Gwen had not presented the facts accurately: she had claimed there'd been six suicides- deluding her father's-in the past eight months. She saw two.

"You okay up here?"

Avery took a second to compose herself and glanced over her shoulder at Rickey. She forced a smile.

"Great." She hopped to her feet. "Just finished now."

She tucked the notebook into her purse, then grabbed up the volume she had been studying. She carried it to the section that housed the 1980s, hoping he wouldn't notice she was shelving it incorrectly.

She wasn't that lucky.

"That doesn't go there." He crossed the room. "Wrong color code."

He slid the volume out, checked the date, frowning. "Though you wanted to look at stuff from 1988."

"Caught me." She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. "I did, I just-" She looked away then back, working to capture just the right note of sincerity. "It's so maudlin, really. But Dad's...his death...I-"

He glanced down at the volume as the date registered. "Geez, Avery, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She manufactured a trembling smile. "Want to walk me out?"

He did just that, stopping at the front door. "Avery, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Rumor on the street is you're staying. Is that so?"

She opened her mouth to deny the rumor, then shut it as she realized she didn't know for certain what she

was doing. "I haven't decided yet," she admitted. "But don't tell my editor."

He smiled at that. "If you stay, I'd love to have you on the Gazette staff. A big step down, I know. But at the Post you've got to put up with the city."

"You're right about that." She smiled, pleased by the offer. "If I stay, there's no one I'd rather work with."

"Stop by and see Jeanette. Meet the kids. She'd love it."

"I would, too." She crossed to the door. There she glanced back. "Rickey? You ever hear of a group

called The Seven?"

His expression altered subtly. He drew his eyebrows together, as if thinking. "What kind of group?

Religious? Civic?"

"Civic."

"Nope. Sorry."

"It's okay. It's something Buddy mentioned. Have a great day."

She stepped out onto the sidewalk. Squinting against the sun, she dug her sunglasses out of her purse, then glanced back at the Gazette's front window.

Rickey was on the phone, she saw. In what appeared to be a heated discussion. He looked upset.