Erica Spindler - In Silence

And she was no longer alone in her belief that her father had been murdered. Gwen Lancaster believed it, too.

Great. A conspiracy-theorist nutcase fell in line with her.

Reassuring.

She would start with the facts, the place every good journalist began. Those facts would lead to others, which would either confirm or allay her suspicions. Hunter and the Elaine St. Claire murder seemed a good first step.

Avery stepped off the square onto Main Street, heading toward Johnson Avenue. It would be fruitless to approach Matt or Buddy; they were lawmen, they'd tell her nothing more than what was reported in the most recent issue of the Gazette.

But Hunter had been there. He'd discovered the body. Had been privy to Matt's and Buddy's reactions, he'd no doubt overheard some of their conversation at the scene.

She acknowledged excitement. A quickening of the blood that told her she was onto something, a high she experienced whenever she hit on the real thing-a powerhouse story with the ability to affect real change.

What change would this story precipitate if true?

Avery reached Johnson and turned down it. Moments later, she reached Hunter's law office. Peering through the window she saw the room was empty, so she went around to the alley entrance.

Hunter appeared at the door before she could knock. Sarah stood at his side. From inside she heard the whimpering of puppies.

He pushed open the screen door. She saw he was dressed in a T-shirt and running shorts.

"I was hoping we could talk," she said.

"About?" he asked, not looking at her. He clipped the lead onto Sarah's collar.

"About…stuff."

He met her eyes. "Stuff? Big-city journalists always use such technical words?"

"Smart-ass."

"Sarah and I are going for a run."

"I'll join you."

He skimmed his gaze over her. Unlike him, she had dressed for comfort-not exercise. She had, however, worn her athletic shoes. "Sorry. But this is our time."

"Our time? You and the dog's?"

"That's right. Haven't you heard the one about dog being man's best friend?"

"If you want an apology," she said, frustrated, "you've got it."

"For what?"

"Our argument."

One corner of his mouth lifted. "Seems to me that was a two-way street." He looked down at Sarah. "What do you think, girl? Can she keep up with us?"

As if she understood her master's question, the dog looked up at her. Avery returned the dog's baleful stare. "Come on, Sarah, give me a little credit. We girls have to stick together."

She seemed to nod, then swung her gaze to Hunter. He laughed. "No fair, you pulled the girl-solidarity thing on me."

Avery laughed. "Why not? It worked, didn't it?"

He stepped through the door, turned and locked it, then began to stretch.

"Where are we going?"

"Tiller's farm."

Tiller's farm was a forty-acre spread just east of Cypress Springs. Now used to raise mostly feeder cattle, the land had been in the Tiller family forever and old Sam Tiller refused to sell even an acre. Cypress Springs had built up around him. In retrospect, Tiller's refusal to budge had been one of the factors that had helped keep Cypress Springs small and pastoral.

Three miles. There. And back.

Not good.

Hunter glanced over at her. His lips lifted in amusement. "Want to back out now?"

"Not at all," she lied. "Just worried about that shotgun of his." Sam Tiller had not been happy when he'd discovered the shady, spring-fed pond on his property had become an oasis for Cypress Springs teenagers.

Buddy had dragged him in on a number of occasions for firing at the kids. Never mind that it'd only been buckshot and that the kids had been trespassing-shooting at teenagers was against the law.

"No worries, doll. I handled a legal problem for him, he gave Sarah and I carte blanche to visit anytime. Could even skinny-dip if we wanted."

She ignored the reference to a mercilessly hot August night when they had done just that. Hunter had promised not to look. She had believed him.

Then caught him staring.

"Ready?"

As she would ever be. "You bet."

They set off, the three of them, the pace relaxed. Warming up. Avery managed to keep up easily at first. Soon, however, she had to press to keep up, even though Hunter paced himself to accommodate her shorter legs.

After three-quarters of a mile, Avery was sweating. Out of breath. Her blue jeans and cotton blouse clung uncomfortably to her damp skin, twisting slightly, restricting her movement.

She'd give her kingdom for a pair of shorts and a sports bra, she decided, yanking her shirt from the waistband of her jeans as she ran. She unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled up the sleeves.

He glanced back. "You okay?"

"Fine," she managed to say, furious at herself. For her own pig-headedness. And for allowing herself to get so out of shape. In the past few months she had gone from a daily run to managing to fit one in once a week. Between that and the difference in their strides, she was hurting.

By the halfway point, however, her endorphins kicked in and the discomfort eased. Hunter drew ahead; she didn't try to keep up. Instead, she luxuriated in the pure pleasure of being outdoors, lungs, heart and muscles working in tandem.

"Meet me at the pond," he called over his shoulder.

She indicated she would, then watched as he pulled away.

When she arrived, Hunter was waiting for her, Sarah panting at his side. The way Avery figured it, she'd been about six minutes behind him.

He passed her a water bottle. "I'd forgotten that about you."

"What?" She accepted the bottle and took a long swallow.

"How determined you are."

She took another swallow, then handed the bottle back. "You mean pigheaded."

"Sometimes." His mouth twitched. "Personally, I believe determination is an admirable trait."

Sarah stood and wandered down to the pond. Avery watched longingly as she waded in for a drink. The water looked delicious.

"Go ahead," he said. "Take a dip. It's spring fed."

"In your dreams, Stevens."

"I didn't say skinny-dip. You, Ms. Chauvin, have a dirty mind."

"Actually, I don't think I'm the one with the dirty mind." She stood and crossed to the water's edge. Kneeling, she splashed water on her face, soaking her shirt in the process.

She glanced down at the now-transparent fabric. So much for modesty. Hell with it, she decided, unbuttoning the clinging fabric.

"Don't look," she ordered, glancing at him over her shoulder.

He rested back on an elbow. "Depends on what I'm going to miss."

"Hunter," she warned, narrowing her eyes at his cheesy smile.

"All right. No peeking, scout's honor."

She waited until he had dutifully turned his head, then peeled off her blouse.

"Very pretty."

She whirled around, wet blouse to her chest. "You looked."

"Of course I did." He laughed. "Can't stop a bird dog from hunting."

"Or a snake from striking."

He laid back, hands folded behind his head and gazed up at the blue sky. "Your honor's safe, doll. Most bathing suits reveal more than that bra, pretty as it is."

He had a point. She soaked her blouse in the chilly water, then draped the dripping fabric across her shoulders. The water sluiced over her shoulders and breasts, leaving trails of goose bumps in their wake.

She made her way back to where he rested. To his credit, he didn't look at her.

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

She hesitated, reluctant to ruin the warm, relaxed mood with talk of murder, then asked anyway. "Wondered if you could tell me anything about the St. Claire murder."

He didn't act surprised by her question. "What do you want to know?"

"The Gazette didn't say how she died."

"It's pretty grim."

"I think I can take it."