Erica Spindler - In Silence

Hunter was already serving time.

"I haven't had a drink since," he finished. "I pray I never will again."

She found his hand, curled her fingers around his.

Moments ticked past.

"Matt's still in love with you."

She started to deny it, he stopped her. "It's true. He never stopped."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I goaded him into losing control today, into throwing the first punch. The sick thing is, I took so much pleasure in doing it. In being able to do it. Perverse SOB, aren't I?"

"You're not so bad." Her lips lifted slightly. "Not as bad as you think you are, not by a long shot."

He turned his head, met her eyes. "Run, Avery. Go as fast as you can. I'm no good for you."

"Maybe I should be the judge of that."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "That'd be risky. We both know you've never been that great a judge of character."

"Is that so?" She sat up, feigning indignation. "Actually, I'm a pretty damn good judge of-You're bleeding again."

"Where?" He sat up, craning to see over his shoulder.

"Here." She twisted to grab a couple of tissues from the box on her bed stand, then dabbed at the trickle of blood seeping from the bandage under his left shoulder blade. She remembered it had been the ugliest of the gashes.

Avery climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet with her. Wrapping it around her, toga style. "I'll bet there are some heavy-duty bandages in Dad's bathroom." She wagged a finger at him. "Stay put."

"Yes, Nurse Chauvin."

Avery padded into the hallway, heading toward her parents' bed-room. The door stood open, giving her a clear view of the bed. She should make it, she thought. Or strip it. Seeing it like that, day after day, reminded her of the last night of her father's life. And in doing so, it reminded her of his death.

The last night of his life.

The unmade bed.

Avery brought a hand to her mouth. Her dad had been in his pajamas. He had taken sleep medication. Obviously, he had either been asleep or had climbed into bed. Why put on his pj's if he meant to kill himself? Why climb into bed, under the covers? Only to get out, step into his slippers and head to the garage to kill himself?

It didn't make sense to her. Even considering her father's state of mind as described by his friends and neighbors.

She closed her eyes, thoughts racing, assembling another scenario. Her father in bed. Sleep aided by medication. Someone at the door. Ringing the bell or pounding.

The coroner had found trace amounts of the drug Halcion in his bloodstream. She had taken a similar medication before, to help her sleep on international flights. She had been easily roused. The medication had simply relaxed her, aided her ability to sleep.

Her dad had been a physician. Had spent his working life on call. Someone pounding on the door would have awakened him, even from a deep, medicated sleep.

So he had climbed out of bed. Stepped into his slippers and headed down to the front door. Or side door. There the enemy had waited. In the guise of a friend, she thought. Someone he had recognized and trusted.

So, he had opened the door.

Avery realized she was shaking. Her heart racing. It hurt, but she kept building the scenario, fitting the pieces together.

He would have been groggy. Easy to surprise and overpower, especially by someone he trusted.

How had they done it? she wondered. She flipped through the possibilities. Neither the coroner nor police had found any indication of foul play. No marks. No fractures. No detectable signs of a struggle, not at the scene or on the body.

She recalled what she had learned about death by fire-that the flesh basically melted but the body didn't incinerate. An autopsy could be performed. A blow to the head with enough force to disable a man would leave evidence for the pathologist.

Could his assailant have subdued him, secured him with ropes and carried him to the garage? She shook her head, eliminating the possibility. According to Ben Mitchell, her dad had crawled a few feet toward the door, impossible if bound.

So, how did one subdue a man without leaving a detectable mark on the body or in the bloodstream?

Then she had it. A friend in D.C. had carried a stun gun instead of pepper spray. She had sung its praises and tried to convince Avery to purchase one. What had she told Avery? That it delivered a high-voltage electrical charge that would immobilize an attacker for up to fifteen minutes. With no permanent damage. And no detectable mark on the body.

It would have paralyzed her father long enough for his murderer to carry him out to the garage, douse him with fuel and toss a match.

His slipper had fallen off on the path between the house and garage.

That's why he hadn't stopped to slip it back on. He hadn't been walking. He'd been carried. She pictured the murderer dumping him in the garage. He'd had the fuel there, ready. Diesel fuel lit on contact. No flashover. The murderer could have tossed the match and walked away.

While her father burned alive. By the time he had been able to respond, it had been too late.

"What's wrong?"

She turned. Hunter had come up behind her. "I know how it happened. With Dad. I know how they killed him."

Hunter awakened to realize he was alone in bed. He glanced at Avery's bedside clock. Just after 5:00 p.m. They had slept the afternoon away.

At least he had.

He sat up. The pillow next to his still bore the imprint of Avery's head. He laid his hand in the indention and found it cold. He shifted his gaze to the window. The light had changed, lost the brilliance of midday and taken on the violet of early evening.

He ran a hand absently across his jaw, rough with a five o'clock shadow, thoughts on Avery. She had shared her theory with him- that her father had been awakened by a trusted friend at the door. That a stun gun had been used to immobilize him. That her father had dragged himself to the door, but that his effort had been too late.

Afterward, Hunter had held her while she cried. Her weeping had broken his heart and he had tried to comfort her by poking holes in her theory. Why would someone have killed her father? he'd asked. What could their motive have been?

Nothing he said had helped, so he had simply held her until her tears stopped. And then he'd led her to the bed and lay with her until they had both drifted off.

Hunter threw the coverlet aside and climbed out of bed. After retrieving his jeans from the floor, he went in search of Avery.

He found her in the kitchen. She stood at the sink, gazing out the window behind it. The portable phone lay on the kitchen table. Beside it a steno-size spiral notebook and a folded newspaper.

She had been up for some time.

He approached silently. She wore a white terry-cloth robe, cinched at the waist. It swallowed her, accentuating her diminutive stature. With her little-boy haircut and pixie features she looked like a child dressed up in her mother's things.

Those who underestimated her because of her petite size made a big mistake. She possessed a keen mind and the kind of determination that sometimes bordered on pigheadedness. He'd always admired her, even when she'd dug in her heels about something that to his mind had made no sense.

He'd admired her character, as well as her sense of fair play. She had stood up to the bullies. Had taken the side of the underdog, befriended the new kids and odd ones, championed the outsiders. It hadn't made her popular, but for the most she hadn't cared about popularity.

Truth was, he had always been in awe of her strength.

He had always been a little bit in love with her.

Was that what was going on now? he wondered. Had she decided to befriend the underdog? Champion him, the outsider? No matter what others thought?