She rubbed her face, acknowledging exhaustion. She was being silly. Losing sleep over this. Letting it tear her apart. She should be able to go on faith. Should be able to, but couldn't. She wasn't built that way. As an investigative reporter, she tested premise against facts, day in and day out.

If she wanted to regain her peace of mind, she would have to disprove Gwen Lancaster's claims.

Avery turned away from the window and began to pace, mind working, the skills she used on her job kicking in. If this were a story she was considering, what would she do?

Begin with a premise. One she thought had merit, that would not only make a good story but also make a difference. Remedy a problem.

Like the story she had done about the flaws in the foster care system. She had exposed the problems. By doing so, she'd helped future children caught in the system. Hopefully. That had been her aim; it was the aim of all good investigative reporting.

She stopped. So what was her premise? A group of small town citizens, frightened over the growing moral decay of their community, take the job of law and order into their own hands. Their actions begin benignly enough but unchecked, become extremist. Anyone who's actions fall outside what is considered right, moral or neighborly is singled out. They break the civil rights of their fellow citizens in the name of righteousness, law and order. Before it's all over, they resort to murder, the cure becoming worse than the illness, the judges more corrupt than the judged.

It was the kind of premise she loved to sink her teeth into. One that would make a startling, eye-opening story. It spoke to her on many levels. She loved her country and believed in the principles on which it had been founded. The freedoms that had made it great. Yet, she also bemoaned the loss of personal safety, the ever-decaying American value system, the inability of law enforcement and the courts to adequately deal with crime.

But this wasn't some anonymous story she was following up, Avery reminded herself. Her role wasn't that of uninvolved, cool-headed journalist. This was her hometown. The people involved her friends and neighbors. People she called family. One of the dead was her father.

She was emotionally involved, all right. Up to her eyeballs.

Premise against facts, she thought, determination flowing through her. She wouldn't let her emotions keep her from being objective. She would stay on her guard, wouldn't be blinded by personal involvement.

And same as always, she would uncover the truth.

CHAPTER 27

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.