In Silence. Erica Spindler
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his disbelieving expression, she made a sound of frustration. “It was the dog and her pups I heard. I thought, you know, that something was wrong.”
“Sarah?” He glanced over at the dog. At the sound of her name, the canine looked up and slapped her tail against the floor.
“See?” Avery said. “That’s what I heard.”
He smiled then, taking her by surprise. “You’re right, that is a scary noise. Did you think the boogeyman had gotten me? Was big bad Avery going to rush in and save the day?”
The curving of his lips changed him into the young man she remembered from all those years ago and she returned his smile. “Why not? It could happen. I carry pepper spray. Besides, if you recall, I’m not one of those prissy, sissy girls like you dated in high school. Hunter,” she mocked in an exaggerated drawl, “you’re so big and strong. I don’t know what I would do without you to protect me.”
He laughed. “True, I would never call you prissy.”
“Thank you for that.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For the other night. I acted like an ass.”
“A bastard and an ass, actually. Apology accepted anyway.”
The dog stood, shook off a last greedy pup and ambled over to Hunter. She looked adoringly up at him. He squatted beside her and scratched behind her ears. She practically swooned with delight.
Avery watched the two, thinking Hunter couldn’t be quite as heartless as he acted. “She seems devoted to you.”
“It’s mutual. I found her when she was as down and out on her luck as I was. Figured we made a good pair.”
Silence fell between them. Avery longed to ask about the circumstances that had brought him to this place, but didn’t want to spoil the moment of camaraderie.
She chose a safer topic instead, motioning the computer. “Your family didn’t mention that you were writing a novel.”
“They don’t know. No one does. Unless like you, they make a habit of breaking and entering.” He straightened. Sarah remained by his feet. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them.”
“If that’s what you want. But I’m sure if they knew they’d be nothing but supporti—”
“It is what I want.”
“All right.” She tilted her head. “The book, what’s it about?”
“It’s a thriller.” He didn’t blink. “About a lawyer who goes off the deep end.”
“It’s autobiographical then?”
“What are you doing here, Avery?”
She decided that beating around the bush would be a waste of time. “I want to talk to you about your mother.”
“There’s a shock.”
She stiffened at his sarcasm. “I saw the two of you this morning. Arguing. She was really upset, Hunter. Hysterical, actually.”
He didn’t respond. Not with surprise or remorse. Not with concern or guilt. His impassive expression made her blood boil. “You don’t have a comment about that?”
“No.”
“She couldn’t even drive, Hunter. I had to take her home.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?”
“For starters.”
“That’s not happening. Anything else?”
She stared at him, stunned. That he could be so unfeeling toward his mother. So careless toward those who loved him.
She told him so and he laughed. “That’s rich. The pot calling the kettle black.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know damn well what it means. Where have you been the last few years, Avery?”
She saw what he was doing and backed off, not about to let him divert the conversation. “We’re not talking about me here, Hunter. We’re talking about you. About you blaming everyone but yourself for your problems. Why don’t you grow up?”
“Why don’t you butt out, Ms. Big-City Reporter? Head back to your important job. Your life isn’t here. It never was.”
Stung, she struck back. “You’re lucky you have such a great family. A family who loves you. One willing to stick by you even when you’re such a colossal jackass. Why don’t you show a little gratitude?”
“Gratitude?” He laughed, the sound hard. “Great family? For an investigative reporter you’re pretty damn obtuse.”
She shook her head, disbelieving. “No family is perfect. But at least they’ve stayed committed to one another. They’ve tried to be there for one another, through thick and thin.”
“When did you become such an expert on my family? You’ve only been here, what? A week? Wait!” He brought his fingertips to his forehead. “I’ve got it! You’re psychic?”
“It’s senseless to even try to have a conversation with you.” She started toward the door. “I’m out of here.”
“Of course you are. That’s your MO, isn’t it, Avery?”
She froze, then turned slowly to face him. “Excuse me?”
“Where have you been the past twelve years?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Cypress Springs isn’t exactly the place to have a career in journalism.”
He took a step toward her. “You’re a fine one to scold me about how I treat my mother. Look at how you treated yours. How many times did you visit her after you moved away?”
“I called. I visited when I could. I couldn’t just take off whenever the mood struck.”
“How long did you stay after her funeral, Avery? Twenty-four hours? Or was it thirty-six?”
She swung toward the door; he followed her, grabbing her arm when she reached it. “And where were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself on fire?”
A cry spilled past her lips. She tugged against his hand. He tightened his grip. “Your dad needed you. And you weren’t here.”
“What do you know about my father! About how he felt or what he needed!”
“I know more than you could imagine.” He released her and she stumbled backward. “I bet you didn’t know that your dad and mine weren’t even on speaking terms. That it had gotten so bad between them that if one saw the other coming on the street, he would cross to the other side to avoid making eye contact. I bet neither Matt nor Buddy told you that.”
“Stop it, Hunter.” She backed toward the door.
“I bet they didn’t tell you that my parents haven’t shared a bed in over a decade. Or that Mom’s addicted to painkillers and booze.” He laughed bitterly. “Dad’s played the part of the jovial, small-town cop so long, he wouldn’t recognize an authentic thought or feeling if it shouted his name. Matt’s trying his damnedest to follow in the old man’s footsteps and is so deeply in denial it’s frightening. And Cherry, poor girl, has sacrificed her life to holding the dysfunctional lot together.
“Great family,” he finished. “As American as apple pie and Prozac.”
She stared at him, shaking with the force of her anger. “You’re right. I wasn’t here. And I hate myself for it. I would do anything, give anything, to change that. To bring them back. But I can’t. I’ve lost them.”
She grasped the door handle, fighting not to cry. Determined not to let him know he