Erica Spindler - In Silence

Avery tried a different tack. "Why do you think I left Cypress Springs? I'm not one of them. I never was." She let that sink in. "If what you're telling me is true, I'll make it right."

"What's in it for you?"

"I clear my father's name."

The woman said nothing. Avery pressed on. "You want justice for your boys?"

"In this town? Ain't no justice for a Pruitt in this town. Hell, ain't no real justice to be had in Cypress Springs."

"Show me what you've got," Avery urged. "You've got proof, I'll make it right. I promise you that."

She was quiet a moment. "Not over the phone," she said finally-"Meet me. Tonight." She quickly gave an address, then hung up.

Magnolia Acres trailer park was located on the southern boundary of Cypress Springs, just outside the incorporated area. Avery turned into the park, noting that the safety light at its entrance was burned out.

Or had been shot out by kids with BB guns, she thought, seeing that all the park's safety lights were dark.

She made her way slowly down the street, straining to make out the numbers. Even the dark couldn't soften the forlorn, abandoned look of the area. The only thing the neighborhood had going for it, Avery thought, was the large lot given each residence. But even those had a quality of runaway disrepair about them. The weeds were winning.

She found number 12 and parked in front. Avery climbed out. Music came from several directions: rap, rock and country. From an adjacent trailer came the sound of a couple fighting. A child crying.

Avery slammed the car door and started toward the trailer, scan-ning the area as she did, noting details. Dead flowers in the single window box. A pitiable attempt at a garden: a few shrubs that badly need trimming, weeds, a rock border, half overgrown. Three steps led up to the front door. A concrete frog sat on the top step.

She neared the door, saw that it stood slightly ajar. Light spilled from inside. As did the smell of fried food.

She climbed the steps, knocked on the door and it swung open. "Mrs. Pruitt," she called. "It's Avery Chauvin."

No answer. She knocked and called out again, this time more loudly.

Again, only silence answered.

She stepped inside. The place was in a shambles. Furniture overturned, newspapers and take-out boxes strewn about, lamp on its side on the floor, light flickering. Her gaze landed on a dark smear across the back wall.

Avery frowned and started toward it. A radio in the other room played the classic "Strangers in the Night." Avery laughed nervously at how weirdly appropriate that was.

She reached the back wall. She squinted at the stain, touched it. It was wet. She turned her hand over. And red.

With a growing sense of horror, Avery turned slowly to her left. Through the doorway to the kitchen she saw a woman stretched out on the floor, back to Avery.

"Mrs. Pruitt?"

Swallowing hard, she crept forward. She reached the woman. Squatted beside her. Stretched out a hand. Touched her shoulder.

The woman rolled onto her back. The woman's eyes were open but it was her mouth that drew Avery's gaze-blood-soaked, grotesquely stretched.

With a cry, Avery scrambled backward. She slipped on the wet floor, lost her balance, landing on her behind. Blood, she realized, gazing down at herself. She had slipped in it, splattering herself, smearing it across the floor.

A sound drew her gaze. The woman blinked. Her mouth moved.

She was alive, Avery realized. She was trying to speak.

Avery righted herself and crept closer. Heart thundering, she knelt beside her, bent her head toward the woman's. A small sound escaped her-little more than a gurgle of air.

"What?" Avery asked, searching her gaze. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Her mouth moved again. She inched her hand to Avery's, fingers clawing.

From the front room came the sound of footsteps. Avery froze. She swung her gaze to the doorway, heart thundering.

The person who had done this could still be in the house.

The sound came again. Terrified, she jumped to her feet. She looked wildly around her. No back door. Small window above the sink.

No way out.

Her gaze landed on the phone. She lunged for it.

"Police!"

Avery whirled around and found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. Her cry of relief stuck on her tongue.

"Get your hands up," the sheriff's deputy said, voice steely. She obeyed the order. Keeping his weapon trained on her, he bent and checked the woman's pulse.

"She's alive," Avery said, fighting hysteria. "She was trying to tell me something. When I heard you, I thought you were the one…the one who did this."

He unhooked his radio, called the incident in and requested an ambulance, never taking his gaze or aim off her.

"Turn around. Hands on the wall."

She did as he ordered, the scream of sirens in the distance. Her bloody hands would leave marks on the wall, she thought, a cry rising in her throat.

The officer came up behind her. "Feet apart."

"You have the wrong idea. I found her this way." When she twisted to plead her case to his face, she found herself shoved flat against the wall, his hand between her shoulder blades. Gun to her head.

"Back off, Jones! Now!"

At the sound of Matt's voice, the deputy reacted instantly, dropping his hands, stepping back.

"Matt!" Avery cried. She ran to him, and he folded her in his arms.

"Sweetheart, are you all right?"

Avery clung to him, shaking. She managed a nod, eyes welling with tears. "The woman…is she…I thought…I heard a noise and-" She buried her face in his shoulder. "I thought whoever had done this, that he was still here."

He tightened his arms around her. "Deputy Jones?"

"Received a call from a neighbor. They heard a commotion. What sounded like a gunshot. When I arrived, I found the door open and interior ransacked. I called for assistance and made my way in here. I found the suspect kneeling over the victim."

"I found her this way!" Avery looked up at Matt. "The door was open…I called her name. She didn't answer, so I made my way in. I-"

The paramedics arrived then, interrupting her, shouting orders, pushing her and Matt toward the door. Behind them waited several more deputies, ready to process the scene the moment the paramedics gave the okay.

Holding her close to his side, Matt led her from the kitchen through the living room and outside. As they made their way out, her toe caught on the frog and it toppled into the garden. They descended the steps and crossed to two rickety lawn chairs set up around a kid's inflatable wading pool. Yellow crime scene tape had already been stretched around the perimeter of the trailer; a deputy stood sentinel, watching the group of neighbors who had come out to gawk.

"Sit," Matt said. "I have to go now. I need you to wait here. We're going to need to question you." He searched her expression. "Will you be all right?"

She nodded. "I'll be okay."

He squeezed her hands, then turned toward the deputy. "Make sure nobody bothers her. If she has any problems, come get me."

Avery watched him go, an intense sense of loss settling over her. She bit her bottom lip to keep from calling him back and sank onto the chair, the woven seat sagging dangerously.

"You all right?"

She glanced at the deputy, a baby-faced young man who hardly looked old enough to be out past ten, let alone to carry a weapon. She nodded. "The woman…is she Trudy Pruitt?"

The kid looked surprised by her question. And rightly so, she supposed, considering the circumstances. He answered anyway. "Uh-huh. Waitresses over at the Hard Eight."

The pool hall.

Avery hugged herself, the woman's image filling her head. Her vacant stare. Her slack mouth. The feel of her fingers clawing at Avery's.