"It's the least I-" She took a step backward. "Bathroom's all yours."

"Thanks." Avery hugged the items to her chest. "I think I...a shower will be nice."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"I'll manage. Thanks for worrying about me. It means a lot."

Avery watched Cherry hurry down the hall, then retreated to the silence of her room. As that silence

surrounded her, the smell of the fire filled her head.

With it came the image of her family's home being engulfed in flames. And a feeling of despair. Of betrayal.

Hunter, how could you?

Turning, she carried the toiletries and clothes to the guest bath, which was accessible from the bedroom.

A Jack and Jill-style bath, consisting of one bath and commode area, flanked on either side by individual sink and dressing areas. She locked the door that led to the other bedroom's dressing area.

A half hour later she stepped out dressed in the pair of lightweight, drawstring cotton pants and white

T-shirt Cherry had lent her, the smell of the fire scrubbed from her hair and skin. She towel-dried and

combed her hair, then crossed to the bed. Sank onto a corner.

She closed her eyes. Her head filled with images-of fire engulfing her home, of Gwen's name and room number scrawled on a paper by Hunter's manuscript, of blood smeared across the wall of Trudy Pruitt's trailer.

Her cell phone rang.

She jumped, startled, then scrambled across the bed for her purse. She grabbed it, dug inside for the device. She answered before it rang a third time. "Gwen, is that-"

"Ms. Chauvin?"

Her heart sank. "Yes?"

"Dr. Harris. I apologize for it having taken so long for me to get back to you, I had some trouble locating

the information you needed."

Avery frowned, confused. Dr. Harris? Why was he- Then she remembered-the autopsy report. Her call to the coroner that morning seemed a light-year

ago.

"Ms. Chauvin, are you there?"

"Yes, sorry. It's been a rough day."

"And I'm afraid my news won't make it any better. There was no autopsy performed on Sallie

Waguespack."

"No autopsy," she repeated. "Aren't autopsies always performed in the case of a murder?"

"Yes, I'm surprised as well. That said, however, because of the circumstances, the coroner determined

an autopsy unnecessary."

"The coroner has that option?"

"Certainly." He paused a moment. "With a typical homicide, the lawyers will require one. The police or

victim's family."

"But the Waguespack murder wasn't a typical homicide."

"Far from it. The perpetrators were dead, there would be no trial. No lawyers requiring proof of cause of

death. The police had plenty of evidence to support their conclusion, including the murder weapon."

"An open and closed case," she murmured. Perfect for a setup. Everything tied up nice and neat.

"Would you have made that call, Dr. Harris?"

"Me? No. But that's my way. When it comes to the cessation of life, I don't take anything for granted." He paused, cleared his throat. "I have one more piece of information that's going to surprise you, Ms. Chauvin. Dr. Badeaux wasn't the coroner on this homicide."

She straightened. "He wasn't. Then who-"

"Your father was, Avery. Dr. Phillip Chauvin."

CHAPTER 51.

Avery sat stone still, heart and thoughts racing, cell phone still clutched in her hands. Dr. Harris had explained. Dr. Badeaux had employed two deputy coroners, all West Feliciana Parish physicians, all appointed by him. The coroner or one of his deputies went to the scene of every death, be it from natural causes, the result of accident, suicide or homicide.

The night of the Waguespack murder, Dr. Badeaux had been winging his way to Paris for a second honeymoon. Her dad had been the closest deputy coroner. When Dr. Badeaux had returned, Sallie Waguespack had been in the ground. He had accepted his deputy's call and it had stood for fifteen years.

"My boys didn 't kill that Sallie Waguespack. They was framed."

"Your father got what he deserved."

Trudy Pruitt had been telling the truth. Her sons had been framed. And her father had been a part of it.

Betrayal tasted bitter against her tongue. She leaped to her feet, began to pace. She couldn't believe her father would do this. She'd thought him the most honorable man she had ever known. The most moral, upright.

The box of clippings, she realized. That was why he had saved them all these years. As a painful reminder.

What he'd done would have eaten at him. She hadn't a doubt about that. All these years...had he feared exposure? Or had he longed for it?

That was it, she thought. The why. He hadn't been able to live with his guilt any longer. But he hadn't killed himself. He had decided to come clean. Clear the Pruitt boys' names. And he had been murdered for it. But why had he done it? For whom had he lied? His best friend. Sheriff Buddy Stevens.

Avery squeezed her eyes shut. Buddy had lied to her. The day she'd gone to see him, about having found the clippings. She had asked him why her father would have followed this murder so closely, why he would have kept the box of news stories all these years. She had asked if her dad had been involved with the investigation in any way.

Buddy had claimed he hadn't had a clue why her father would have clipped those stories, that her father hadn't been in any way involved in the investigation.

He'd been up to his eyeballs in this. They both had been. She recalled the words in her mother's journal. That after the murder everything had been different. That her father and Buddy's relationship had been strained. Hunter had claimed that their fathers never even spoke anymore.

What could cause such a serious rift between lifelong friends?

The answer was clear. For a friend, her dad had gone against his principles. Afterward, he had hated both himself and his friend for it.

That poor woman. And pregnant, too. Pregnant. With whose baby? Avery didn't like what she was thinking. She glanced toward the doorway. Lilah was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She would know. Like her mother, she had lived through it. Had watched as best friends grew distant, then to despise one another.

Avery grabbed her handbag, with the two journals tucked inside, and slipped into her shoes. She went to the bedroom door and peeked out. The house was quiet save for sounds coming from the kitchen.

She slipped into the hall and down the stairs. From the study came the sound of Cherry and Buddy, talking softly. Avery tiptoed past the closed door and headed to the kitchen.

Lilah glanced over her shoulder at her and smiled. Avery saw that she was grating cheese. She wore a ruffled, floral apron-a flour smudge decorated her nose and right cheek. The blueberry pie, pretty as a picture from Bon Appetit, sat cooling on a rack by the oven.

"You look refreshed," she said brightly.

"At least I don't reek of smoke anymore."

"There's something to the whole comfort-food thing, don't you think?" She turned back to her grating. "Macaroni and cheese, chicken pot pie, tuna casserole. Good, old-fashioned stick-to-your-ribs stuff. Just thinking about it makes one feel better."

If only it was so easy, Avery thought, watching her work. If only life were so simple. Like something out of Life magazine in the 1950s. Or an episode of an old TV show.

Life wasn't like that, no matter how much she longed for it to be. The picture Lilah presented was wrong. She saw that now. A deception. An illusion.

A picture-perfect mask to hide the truth from the world.

But what was the truth?

Avery opened her handbag and drew out the journal from 1988. "Lilah," she said softly, "I need to ask you something. It's important."

The woman glanced at her. Her gaze dropped to Avery's hands. "What's that?"

"One of my mother's journals. I found it in my parents' attic."

"But I thought your father had gotten rid of them."

"No. Mother had packed them away. They were almost all lost in the fire."

Lilah's expression altered slightly. Her gaze skittered from Avery's to the journal. "Not that one."

"No. Or one other."

"Thank God for that."

"Yes." Avery carefully slid it back into her purse. "I discovered something interesting in this journal, Lilah.

I wanted to ask you about it."

"Sure, hon." She went to the refrigerator and retrieved a jug of milk. She filled a measuring cup full.

"What do you need to know?"

"Whose baby was Sallie Waguespack carrying?"

The measuring cup slipped from her fingers. It hit the counter-top and milk spewed across the

country-blue Formica. With a small cry, she began mopping up the mess.