Rickey had been wrong about one thing: Buddy had classified the death as a homicide.

For the next two hours she picked her way through the archived issues. What she found shook her to the core. Gwen Lancaster hadn't been fabricating. Avery picked up her notepad, scanning her notes. She had listed every death not attributed to natural causes. Kevin Gallagher had died this year, she saw. Danny Gallagher's dad. A car wreck on Highway 421, just outside of town. His Lexus had careened off the road and smashed into a tree. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt and had gone through the windshield.

Deputy Chief of Police Pat Greene had drowned. A woman named Dolly Farmer had hung herself. There'd been a couple more car wrecks, young people involved-both in the same area Sal had died. The city, she saw, had commissioned the state to reduce the speed limit along that stretch of highway.

She frowned. Another hanging-this one deemed accidental. The kid, it seemed, had been into autoeroticism. Another young person had OD'd. Pete Trimble had fallen off his tractor and been run over.

Avery laid the notepad on the table and brought a trembling hand to her mouth. Eight months, all this death. Ten of them. Thirteen if she tossed in Luke McDougal, Tom Lancaster and Elaine St. Claire.

She struggled for impartiality. Even so, Gwen had not presented the facts accurately: she had claimed there'd been six suicides- deluding her father's-in the past eight months. She saw two.

"You okay up here?"

Avery took a second to compose herself and glanced over her shoulder at Rickey. She forced a smile. "Great." She hopped to her feet. "Just finished now."

She tucked the notebook into her purse, then grabbed up the volume she had been studying. She carried it to the section that housed the 1980s, hoping he wouldn't notice she was shelving it incorrectly.

She wasn't that lucky.

"That doesn't go there." He crossed the room. "Wrong color code."

He slid the volume out, checked the date, frowning. "Though you wanted to look at stuff from 1988."

"Caught me." She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. "I did, I just-" She looked away then back, working to capture just the right note of sincerity. "It's so maudlin, really. But Dad's…his death…I-"

He glanced down at the volume as the date registered. "Geez, Avery, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She manufactured a trembling smile. "Want to walk me out?"

He did just that, stopping at the front door. "Avery, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Rumor on the street is you're staying. Is that so?"

She opened her mouth to deny the rumor, then shut it as she realized she didn't know for certain what she was doing. "I haven't decided yet," she admitted. "But don't tell my editor."

He smiled at that. "If you stay, I'd love to have you on the Gazette staff. A big step down, I know. But at the Post you've got to put up with the city."

"You're right about that." She smiled, pleased by the offer. "If I stay, there's no one I'd rather work with."

"Stop by and see Jeanette. Meet the kids. She'd love it."

"I would, too." She crossed to the door. There she glanced back. "Rickey? You ever hear of a group called The Seven?"

His expression altered subtly. He drew his eyebrows together, as if thinking. "What kind of group? Religious? Civic?"

"Civic."

"Nope. Sorry."

"It's okay. It's something Buddy mentioned. Have a great day."

She stepped out onto the sidewalk. Squinting against the sun, she dug her sunglasses out of her purse, then glanced back at the Gazette's front window.

Rickey was on the phone, she saw. In what appeared to be a heated discussion. He looked upset.

Rickey glanced up then. His gaze met hers. The hair on the back of her neck prickling, she lifted a hand in goodbye, turned and walked quickly away.

CHAPTER 28

Avery went home to regroup and decide on her next step. She sat at her kitchen table, much as she had for the past hour, untouched tuna sandwich on a plate beside her. She stared at her notebook, at the names of the dead.

Such damning evidence. Didn't anyone in Cypress Springs find this rash of deaths odd? Hadn't anyone expressed concern to Buddy or Matt? Was the whole town in on this conspiracy?

Slow down, Chauvin. Assess the facts. Be objective.

Avery pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the window. She peered out at the lush backyard, a profusion of greens accented by splashes of red and pink. What did she actually have? Gwen Lancaster, a woman who claimed that a vigilante-style group was operating in Cypress Springs. A number of accidental deaths, suspicious because of their number. Two missing persons. A murder. A suicide. And a box of newspaper clippings about a fifteen-year-old murder.

Accidents took lives. People went missing. Murders happened, as tragic a fact as that was. Yes, the suicide rate was slightly higher than the state average, but statistics were based on averages not absolutes. It might be two years before another Cypress Springs resident took his own life.

And the clippings? she wondered. A clue to state of mind or nothing more than saved memorabilia?

If the clippings were evidence to a state of mind, wouldn't her dad have saved something else as well? She thought yes. But where would he have stored them? She had emptied his bedroom closet and dresser drawers, the kitchen cabinets and pantry and the front hall closet. But she hadn't even set foot in his study or the attic.

Now, she decided, was the time.

Two and a half hours later, Avery found herself back in the kitchen, no closer to an answer than before. She crossed to the sink to wash her hands, frustrated. She had gone through her father's desk and bookshelves, his stored files in the attic. She had done a spot check of every box in the attic. And found nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary.

She dried her hands. What next? In Washington, she'd had colleagues to brainstorm with, editors to turn to for opinions and insights, sources she trusted. Here she had nothing but her own gut instinct to guide her.

She let it guide her now. She picked up the phone and dialed her editor at the Post. "Brandon, it's Avery."

"Is it really you?" He laughed. "And here I thought you might be hiding from me."

He appreciated bluntness. He always preferred his writers get to the point-both in their work and their pitches. The high-stress business of getting a newspaper on the stands afforded no time for meandering or coy word games.

"I'm onto a story," she said.

"Glad to hear your brain's still working. Though I'm a bit surprised, considering. Tell me about it."

"Small town turns to policing its citizens Big Brother-style as a way to stop the ills of the modern world from encroaching on their way of life. It began when a group of citizens, alarmed by the dramatic increase in crime, formed an organization to counter the tide. At first it was little more than a Neighborhood Watch-type program. A way to help combat crime."

"Then they ran amok," he offered.

"Yes. According to my source, the core group was small, but they had an intricate network of others who reported to the group. Citizens were followed. Their mail read. What they ate, drank and watched was monitored. Where they went. If they worshiped. If the group determined it necessary, they were warned that their behavior would not be tolerated."

"Goodbye civil rights," Brandon muttered.

"That's not the half of it. If their warnings went unheeded, the group took action. Businesses were boycotted. Individuals shunned. Property vandalized. To varying degrees, everyone was in on it."

He was silent a moment. "You talking about your hometown?"

"Yup."