Avery padded into the hallway, heading toward her parents' bed-room. The door stood open, giving her

a clear view of the bed. She should make it, she thought. Or strip it. Seeing it like that, day after day, reminded her of the last night of her father's life. And in doing so, it reminded her of his death.

The last night of his life.

The unmade bed.

Avery brought a hand to her mouth. Her dad had been in his pajamas. He had taken sleep medication.

Obviously, he had either been asleep or had climbed into bed. Why put on his pj's if he meant to kill

himself? Why climb into bed, under the covers? Only to get out, step into his slippers and head to the garage to kill himself?

It didn't make sense to her. Even considering her father's state of mind as described by his friends and neighbors.

She closed her eyes, thoughts racing, assembling another scenario. Her father in bed. Sleep aided by medication. Someone at the door. Ringing the bell or pounding.

The coroner had found trace amounts of the drug Halcion in his bloodstream. She had taken a similar medication before, to help her sleep on international flights. She had been easily roused. The medication had simply relaxed her, aided her ability to sleep.

Her dad had been a physician. Had spent his working life on call. Someone pounding on the door would have awakened him, even from a deep, medicated sleep.

So he had climbed out of bed. Stepped into his slippers and headed down to the front door. Or side door. There the enemy had waited. In the guise of a friend, she thought. Someone he had recognized and trusted.

So, he had opened the door.

Avery realized she was shaking. Her heart racing. It hurt, but she kept building the scenario, fitting the pieces together.

He would have been groggy. Easy to surprise and overpower, especially by someone he trusted.

How had they done it? she wondered. She flipped through the possibilities. Neither the coroner nor police had found any indication of foul play. No marks. No fractures. No detectable signs of a struggle, not at the scene or on the body.

She recalled what she had learned about death by fire-that the flesh basically melted but the body didn't incinerate. An autopsy could be performed. A blow to the head with enough force to disable a man would leave evidence for the pathologist.

Could his assailant have subdued him, secured him with ropes and carried him to the garage? She shook her head, eliminating the possibility. According to Ben Mitchell, her dad had crawled a few feet toward the door, impossible if bound.

So, how did one subdue a man without leaving a detectable mark on the body or in the bloodstream?

Then she had it. A friend in D.C. had carried a stun gun instead of pepper spray. She had sung its praises and tried to convince Avery to purchase one. What had she told Avery? That it delivered a high-voltage electrical charge that would immobilize an attacker for up to fifteen minutes. With no permanent damage. And no detectable mark on the body.

It would have paralyzed her father long enough for his murderer to carry him out to the garage, douse him with fuel and toss a match.

His slipper had fallen off on the path between the house and garage.

That's why he hadn't stopped to slip it back on. He hadn't been walking. He'd been carried. She pictured the murderer dumping him in the garage. He'd had the fuel there, ready. Diesel fuel lit on contact. No flashover. The murderer could have tossed the match and walked away.

While her father burned alive. By the time he had been able to respond, it had been too late.

"What's wrong?"

She turned. Hunter had come up behind her. "I know how it happened. With Dad. I know how they killed him."

CHAPTER 43.

Hunter awakened to realize he was alone in bed. He glanced at Avery's bedside clock. Just after 5:00 p.m. They had slept the afternoon away.

At least he had.

He sat up. The pillow next to his still bore the imprint of Avery's head. He laid his hand in the indention and found it cold. He shifted his gaze to the window. The light had changed, lost the brilliance of midday and taken on the violet of early evening.

He ran a hand absently across his jaw, rough with a five o'clock shadow, thoughts on Avery. She had shared her theory with him- that her father had been awakened by a trusted friend at the door. That a stun gun had been used to immobilize him. That her father had dragged himself to the door, but that his effort had been too late.

Afterward, Hunter had held her while she cried. Her weeping had broken his heart and he had tried to comfort her by poking holes in her theory. Why would someone have killed her father? he'd asked. What could their motive have been?

Nothing he said had helped, so he had simply held her until her tears stopped. And then he'd led her to the bed and lay with her until they had both drifted off.

Hunter threw the coverlet aside and climbed out of bed. After retrieving his jeans from the floor, he went in search of Avery.

He found her in the kitchen. She stood at the sink, gazing out the window behind it. The portable phone lay on the kitchen table. Beside it a steno-size spiral notebook and a folded newspaper.

She had been up for some time.

He approached silently. She wore a white terry-cloth robe, cinched at the waist. It swallowed her, accentuating her diminutive stature. With her little-boy haircut and pixie features she looked like a child dressed up in her mother's things.

Those who underestimated her because of her petite size made a big mistake. She possessed a keen mind and the kind of determination that sometimes bordered on pigheadedness. He'd always admired her, even when she'd dug in her heels about something that to his mind had made no sense.

He'd admired her character, as well as her sense of fair play. She had stood up to the bullies. Had taken the side of the underdog, befriended the new kids and odd ones, championed the outsiders. It hadn't made her popular, but for the most she hadn't cared about popularity.

Truth was, he had always been in awe of her strength.

He had always been a little bit in love with her.

Was that what was going on now? he wondered. Had she decided to befriend the underdog? Champion

him, the outsider? No matter what others thought?

She became aware of his presence and looked at him. The barest of smiles touched her mouth. "It's going to storm." He crossed to stand beside her. The wind had begun to blow, he saw. Dark clouds tumbled across the evening sky. "It's spring. We need the rain."

"I suppose."

He touched her cheek lightly. "Are you all right?"

"Hanging in there." She tilted her head into his hand. "Hungry?"

"Starving. We could order out."

She shook her head. "I have eggs. And cheese."

"Sounds like an omelette."

They worked together, playfully arguing over what ingredients to include. Onions were out. Bell peppers

in. Mushrooms were a must. Lots of cheese. A bit of cayenne pepper.

"I'll make toast," he offered.

"I have English muffins. In the fridge."

"Even better." He retrieved them along with the orange juice and butter. After splitting two of the muffins

and popping them into the toaster, he rummaged around in the cabinets and drawers, collecting flatware,

plates, glasses and napkins.

Hunter carried them to the oak table. He moved the phone and newspaper; as he did, he saw it was the issue of the Gazette that had reported her dad's death. He frowned, shifting his gaze to the spiral notebook that lay beside it. A column of names with a date beside each ran down the page. Pat Greene.

Sal Mandina. Pete Trimble. Kevin Gallagher. Dolly Farmer. Her father's name was there. At the bottom, Trudy Pruitt's.

"What's this?"

She didn't look at him. "Something I'm working on."

"Working on?" he repeated. "It looks like a list of people who have died in-"

"The past eight months," she finished for him. "Here in Cypress Springs."

She wouldn't have the list out if she hadn't wanted him to see it. "This is about those things Trudy Pruitt

said to you, isn't it? About your dad being involved in Sallie Waguespack's death?"

She turned the omelette. "Yes. And about the clippings I found in his closet. And two murders and two disappearances in the past six weeks. And a group called The Seven."

He frowned. "I'm not going to be able to deter you from this, am I?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. "No."

Determined to the point of pigheaded. She wouldn 't let this go until she was satisfied she knew the truth.

Beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt truth.

No wonder she was such a good investigative reporter.

"Dammit, Avery. You drive me crazy."

She lifted a shoulder. "Forget it then if it'll make you feel better."

"Like hell. You think I'm going to leave you to track down a killer yourself? Two women have already

been murdered. I don't want you to be the third."

She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him in exaggerated coquetry. "That's so sweet, Hunter."

"This isn't funny. There's a killer out there."

"That's right. And he may have killed my father."

"Would you like my help?" he asked, resigned.

She thought a moment, then nodded. "I think I would. Eggs are ready."

She slid the omelettes onto plates. He buttered the English muffins and set them on the table. While they