They told her they believed he had been the victim of a random act of violence-that Tom had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had promised not to close the case until they uncovered what happened to him.
Gwen had a different theory about his disappearance. She believed his research into The Seven had gotten him killed. That he had gotten too close to someone or something. She had talked to him only days before he disappeared. He'd found so much more than he'd expected, he had told her. He believed that The Seven was not a thing of the past, but operating still. He had made an important contact; they were meeting the following night.
Gwen had begged him to be careful.
That had been the last time she'd heard his voice. The last time, she feared, she would ever hear his voice.
Although his research notes revealed nothing sinister, she hadn't a doubt his contact had either set him up or killed him.
Gwen brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. What if she was wrong? What if she simply needed someone-or something- she could point to and say they did it, that her brother was gone because of them. The therapist she had been seeing thought so. Hers was a common reaction, he'd said. The need to make sense out of a senseless act of violence. To create order out of chaos.
She dropped her hands, weary from her own thoughts. Chaos. That's what her life had become after Tom's disappearance.
She crossed back to the window. For several days city workers had been stringing lights in the trees. Tonight, it seemed, was the payoff. The thousands of twinkling lights snapped on, turning the town square into a fairyland.
It was so beautiful. Charming. A postcard-perfect community populated by the nicest people she had ever encountered.
It was a lie. An illusion. This place was not the idyllic paradise it seemed. People here were not the paragons they seemed.
And she would prove it. No matter what it cost her.
CHAPTER 11
Gallagher's funeral home was housed in a big old Victorian on Prospect Street. The Gallagher family had been in the funeral game for as long as Avery could remember. She and Danny had gone to school together, and she remembered a report he had given in the seventh grade on embalming. The girls had been horrified, the boys fascinated.
Being the biggest tomboy in Cypress Springs, she had fallen in line with the boys.
Danny Gallagher met her at the front door of the funeral home. He'd been a lady-killer in school and although time had somewhat softened his chin and middle, he was still incredibly handsome.
He caught her hands and kissed her cheeks. "Are you all right?"
"As well as can be expected, I guess."
He looked past her, a frown wrinkling his forehead. "You drove yourself?"
She had. Truth was, half a dozen people had offered to drive her tonight, including Buddy and Matt. She had refused them, even when they had begged her to reconsider. She had wanted to be alone.
"I'm a city girl," she murmured. "I'm used to taking care of myself"
He ushered her inside, clearly disapproving. "If you need anything, let me or one of the staff know. I'm expecting a big crowd."
Within twenty minutes he was proved correct-nearly the entire town was turning out to pay their respects. One after another, old friends, neighbors and acquaintances hugged her and offered their condolences. Some she recognized right off, others had to remind her who they were. Again and again, each expressed their shock and dismay over her father's death.
Nobody actually said the word. But it hung in the air anyway. It was written on their faces, in the carefully chosen words and softly modulated tones. It was there in the things they didn't say.
Suicide.
And with that word, their unspoken accusation. Their condemnation. She hadn't been there for him. He had needed her and she had been off taking care of herself.
"Where were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself on fire?"
Hunter's taunt from two days before was burned into her brain. She told herself he had meant to hurt her. That he was angry, hurting, just plain mean. She told herself he wouldn't win unless she let him.
But she couldn't tell herself the one thing she longed to: that the things he'd said weren't true. Because they were.
And in that lay their power.
Minutes ticked by at an agonizing pace. The walls began to close in on her. Her head became light; her knees weak. She felt as if she were suffocating on the smell of colognes and flowers, cloying, too sweet. Each vying for dominance over the other.
She had to get some air. The patio. She inched in that direction, fighting her mounting panic. She reached the doors, slipped through them and out into the unseasonably cool night air. She hurried to the patio's edge; grasped the railing for support.
"Keep it together, Avery. You can't fall apart yet." From the other side of the patio came an embarrassed-sounding cough. She swung in that direction, realizing she wasn't alone. That she had been talking to herself.
A man she didn't recognize stood on the other side of the patio, smoking. She scolded herself for the spear of irritation she felt. It was she who was intruding. Not he.
He met her eyes. "Sorry about your dad, Ms. Chauvin. He was a fine man."
"Thank you," she said, fighting past the emotion that rose in her throat and crossing to him. "I'm sorry, but do I know you?"
He looked embarrassed. "We've never met." He extinguished the cigarette and held out a hand. "John Price. Cypress Springs Volunteer Fire Department."
She shook his hand. "Good to met you."
He looked away, then back, expression pure misery. "I was on call that morning. I was the first to…see your dad."
He had seen her father.
He had been the first.
A half-dozen questions popped into her head. She uttered the first to her tongue. "What did you do then?"
He looked surprised. "Pardon?"
"After you found him, what happened next?"
"Called my captain. He called the state fire marshal. They sent the arson investigator assigned to our region. He's a good guy. Name's Ben Mitchell."
"And he called the coroner."
"Yup." He nodded. "Parish coroner. Coroner called Buddy."
"That's how it works?"
He shuffled slightly. "Yeah. Our job's elimination and containment of the fire itself, as well as search and rescue. Once our job's done, we call the state fire marshal. He determines how the fire started."
"And calls the coroner?"
"Yes. If there are victims. He calls the PD. Chain of command."
She felt herself emotionally disengaging, slipping into the role of journalist. It was an automatic thing, like breathing. She found it comforting. "And my father was dead when you got there?"
"No doubt about that. He-" The man bit back what he was about to say.
"What?"
"He was dead, Ms. Chauvin. Absolutely."
She shut her eyes, working to recall what she knew of death by burning. The arson piece she'd done. Those two little victims; she had seen a picture. Charred cadavers. Entirely black. Generic fea-
"Avery? Are you okay?"
At Matt's voice, she opened her eyes. He stood in the doorway, Cherry hovering just behind him.
"Fine." As she said the word, she realized she felt a hundred percent better than when she'd stepped outside.
"People are looking for you."
She nodded and turned back to the fireman. "John, I'd like to talk to you more about this. Could I give you a call, set up something?"
He shifted his gaze, obviously uncomfortable. "Sure, but I don't know what I could tell you that would-"
"Just for me," she said quickly. "For closure."
"I guess. You can reach me through the dispatcher."
She thanked him, turned and crossed to where Matt and Cherry waited.