he said. "Where are you going to be?"

His voice had changed. Become tight. Angry-sounding. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Fine."

In the background Sarah was going nuts. A thought occurred to her. "Are you alone?"

"Not completely."

"I don't understand. I-"

"Stay put. I'll call you back."

"But-"

"Promise."

She hesitated, then agreed.

The next instant, the phone went dead.

CHAPTER 46.

Avery showered and dressed. Made her bed and separated her laundry before throwing a load of whites in the washer. Then she foraged through the refrigerator and checked her e-mail via her laptop. She responded evasively to her editor's query about progress on her story and figured everyone else could wait.

Time ticked past at an agonizing pace. She glanced at the clock every couple of minutes. After nearly an hour, she acknowledged she couldn't stand another minute of inactivity.

Bringing both the portable and cell phone with her, she headed upstairs. As she reached the top landing, her gaze settled on the framed photographs that lined the long hallway wall. She had always jokingly called it her parents' wall of fame.

How many times had she walked past all these photos without looking at them? Without considering the fact that she was pictured in almost every one? How could she have taken her parents' love so for granted?

She stopped, pivoted to her right. Her gaze landed on a photo of her as a toddler. Her first steps, Avery thought, taking in her mother on her knees on the floor, arms out. Coaxing and encouraging her. Promising she would be there to catch her.

Avery moved her gaze across the wall. Baby pictures, school portraits, pictures from every imaginable holiday and event of her life. And in a great number of them, there stood her mother, looking on with love and pride.

She took in the photograph of her first steps once more, studying her mother's expression. The truth was, she hadn't known her mother at all. What had been her hopes, dreams and aspirations? She had longed to be a writer. Yet Avery knew nothing of her writing.

She had always blamed her mother for their distant relationship, but perhaps the fault had been hers. She'd had her father, and loving him had been so easy.

She, it seemed, was the one who had taken the easy way. The one who had settled-for a loving relationship with one parent instead of two. If only she had her mother's journals. In them resided her mother's heart and soul. Her beliefs and wishes, disappointments and fears. The opportunity to know her mother.

Her father wouldn't have thrown them out. Her mother-the woman pictured in these photographs-would not have destroyed them, even if she had given up on them.

They were here. Somewhere.

Avery started for the attic, a sense of urgency settling over her. A sense that time was running out.

She reached the attic. Scanned the rows and stacks of cartons. In one of these boxes she would find the journals. Stored with other items. Hidden beneath.

She began the search, tearing through the cartons-her mother's clothing, personal items, other books, family memorabilia.

She found them in the box housing Avery's doll collection. The dolls her mother had insisted on buying and lining Avery's bed-room shelves with-despite Avery's disdain for them.

Her mother had packed the volumes neatly, arranging the books in chronological order. The first one was dated 1965. Her mother had been seventeen. The last one dated August 1990-just as Lilah had said, her mother had given up journaling the August when Avery had gone off to university.

Avery trailed a finger over the spines with their perfectly aligned, dated labels. She stopped on the one dated January through June 1988.

All the answers she sought were here, she thought, pulse quickening. About Sallie Waguespack's death and her father's part in it. Perhaps ones about The Seven, their formation.

But other answers were here as well. Ones to personal questions, personal issues that had plagued her all her life.

Sallie Waguespack could wait, she decided, easing the volume dated 1965 from its slot. Her mother could not.

Avery began to read. She learned about a girl raised by strict, traditional parents. About her dreams of writing. She learned that her mother had been a deeply passionate woman, that she had often been afraid, that in her own way she had rebelled against her parents' strict upbringing.

Through her mother's words, Avery relived the day she met Phillip Chauvin, their first date. Their courtship, wedding. The first time they made love. Avery's birth.

Avery struggled to breathe evenly. She realized her cheeks were wet with tears.

Her mother had given up a lot to be a wife and mother.

But what she had gotten in return had been huge.

She had loved being a mother. Had loved being Avery's mother. She had described with pride her daughter's determination. That she was different from the other girls-that she seemed insistent on marching to her own tune.

She baffles me. I put a bow in her hair and when I'm not looking, she rips it out. Today Avery won first prize in the parish-wide essay contest. She read her essay to the class. I hid my tears. Her talent takes my breath away. Secretly, I smile and think, "She got that from me. My gift to my precious daughter."

Avery wiped tears from her cheeks and read on, this time from the 1986 journal.

She breaks my heart daily. Doesn't she know I want the world for her? Doesn't she know how frightened I am of losing her?

And then later she poured out her heart.

I've lost her. She and I have nothing in common. She turns to her dad, always.

They laugh together, share everything. I often think I made a huge mistake. If I'd

pursued my writing, we would have had something in common. Maybe then she wouldn't look at me as if she thought I had no purpose in her life. That I had wasted my life. Avery selected the last volume next-1990, the year she had graduated from high school.

Where did I go wrong? How did she and I grow so far apart? She's leaving Cypress Springs. I begged her to stay. Even as I thought of my own choices, my mistakes and regrets, I pleaded with her. I shared my dreams, but it is too late.

Avery closed the book, hands shaking, fighting not to fall apart. She had accused her mother of not loving her. But her mother had loved her deeply. Avery had accused her of trying to change her, of trying to mold her into someone different, something other than who she was.

But her mother had understood and admired her for the person she was, different from the other girls, the one who had never fit in.

In truth, her mother had never fit in either. Not with her own parents. Not with her community. Not with her daughter.

She and her mother had been just alike.

Avery pressed her lips together, holding back a sound of pain. If only she had read the journals before her mother died. If only she had let go of her pride.

She had wanted to. She'd been sorry for the way she'd acted, the way she had hurt her mother. Instead

of acting on the emotion, she had let pride control her. She had been so certain she was right.

So, she had stayed away. Nursed her feeling of self-righteous indignation.

And had missed out on so much. Time with her mother and father. Now it was too late.

To be with them. But not for justice for Sallie Waguespack and the Pruitt brothers.

She located the appropriate volume and flipped through to the entry for June 19, the day after Sallie

Waguespack's murder.

That poor woman. And pregnant, too. It's too horrible to contemplate. Her mother had then gone on to describe other, mundane events. Avery frowned, her investigative instincts kicking into over-drive. Pregnant? Nothing else she had read had mentioned the woman being pregnant. Avery flipped ahead, looking for another reference.

She didn't find one. Could her mother have been mistaken? That didn't seem likely. Where had she gotten her information? Maybe from her husband, Avery thought. The local general practitioner. Perhaps Sallie Waguespack's physician. Probably.

So why had that information been kept from the public?

Avery read on, heart racing, realizing that all the answers she sought were here, in her mother's words. Phillip was quiet today. Something is terribly wrong but he won't speak of it. And then later, Phillip and Buddy argued. They aren't speaking and it pains me that such good friends are being torn apart by something like this. Something like what? Avery wondered. Sallie Waguespack's murder? Had they been on opposite sides of the tide of public opinion? Avery found no further mention of conflict between the two friends or about the murder or investigation until a passage that caused her heart to skip a beat. Buddy has involved himself in something...a group. There's seven of them. Something secret. I heard him trying to convince Phillip to join. Avery stopped, working to collect her thoughts. Buddy a member of the original Seven? Trying to convince her father to join? She read on. Phillip went out tonight; he met with that group, The Seven. He seemed troubled when he returned. I'm concerned... Everything is different now. Everything has...changed.

Avery glanced at her watch, shocked to see that nearly two hours had passed already. There were so many journals yet to read. She needed another pair of eyes. Hands shaking, she dug in her pocket for the paper she had scrawled Gwen's cell number on. She dialed the number, left a message and stood, a ripple of unease moving over her. Where was Gwen? To hell with stealth, she decided, hurrying for the attic stairs, stopping when she reached them. Turning, she darted back to the boxes of journals. She bent, collected the ones from 1988 and 1990, then ran for the stairs.

Minutes later, journals stuffed into her handbag, she backed her SUV down the driveway. She reached

The Guesthouse in no time at all, parked in front and hurried up the walk. As she made a move to grab the doorknob, the door opened.

Avery jumped backward, making a sound of surprise.

Her old friend Laurie stepped through.

"Avery," she said, looking startled. "This is so weird. I was just thinking about you. I've meant to call or stop by, but it's been nuts around here what with Fall Festival and-"

"Don't worry about it. It's good to see you."

Laurie glanced at her watch. "I'd love to chat, but I'm late."

"Actually, I stopped by to see Gwen Lancaster. Is she in?"

Laurie drew her eyebrows together. "Gwen Lancaster? The woman in 2C?"

"Yes. Is she here?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her today."

"When's the last time you did see her? It's important."

The other woman frowned. "I don't know...I don't keep tabs on our guests."

Realizing how she sounded, Avery forced a laugh. "Of course you don't. If she's not there, could I leave

her a note?"

"Sure, Avery. No law against that." She hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder, started off, then

stopped and looked back at Avery, eyes narrowed. "Gwen Lancaster's not from around here. How do you know her?"

Avery lifted a shoulder in feigned nonchalance. "We met down at the Azalea Cafe. Hit it off."

"Oh." Laurie frowned slightly. "Her brother's the one who disappeared. Tom. He stayed with us, too."

"I'd heard that."