Every time she’d closed her eyes, she’d seen Trudy Pruitt lying in a pool of red, eyes wide and pleading, blood-soaked mouth working. Finally, Avery had given up and climbed out of bed. After brewing a pot of coffee, she’d dragged out the box of newspaper clippings and had begun poring over them, looking for anything that didn’t fit, anything that might suggest a cover-up.Nothing in the news stories jumped out at her.What had Trudy Pruitt been trying to tell her? What proof of her father’s involvement in the Sallie Waguespack murder did she have? Had she been the bitter, unstable drunk Matt purported her to be? One who had simply chosen Avery as a vehicle for venting her unhappiness?Avery shifted her gaze to the box of clippings. Dammit. If not for these she might be able to believe that. Why, Dad? Why did you save these?Only one person could answer that question.Buddy.Twenty-five minutes later Avery found herself at the ranch. She rang the bell, praying she had caught him before he left for church.
