River’s End

hall. At the front door, she fought with the knob while tears flooded her cheeks. She had to get outside. She had to find a tree, a sky-brushing tree, so she could climb up and call Mama home.
    She fought it open and raced out. There were crowds of people, and she didn’t know where to go. Everyone was shouting, at once, like a big wave of sound crashing over her head, hurting her ears. She pressed her hands to them, crying, calling for her mother.
    A dozen cameras greedily captured the shot. Ate the moment and her grief and her fear.
    Someone shouted for them to leave her alone, she’s just a baby. But the reporters surged forward, caught in the frenzy. Sun shot off lenses, blinded her. She saw shadows and shapes, a blur of strange faces. Voices boomed out questions, commands.
    Look this way, Olivia! Over here.
    Did your father try to hurt you?
    Did you hear them fighting?
    Look at me, Olivia. Look at the camera.
    She froze like a fawn in the crosshairs, eyes dazed and wild. Then she was being scooped up from behind, her face pressed into the scent and shape of her aunt.
    “I want Mama, I want Mama.” She could only whisper it while Aunt Jamie held her tight.
    “She’s just a child.” Unable to stop herself, Jamie lifted her voice to a shout. “Damn you, God damn every one of you, she’s only a child.”
    She turned back toward the house and shook her head fiercely before her husband and her parents could step out. “No, stay inside. Don’t give them any more. Don’t give them another thing.”
    “I’ll take her upstairs.” Grandma’s eyes were dry now. Dry and cold and calm. “
    You’re right, Jamie. We deal with them now.” She pressed her lips to Olivia’s hair as she started upstairs. For her, Olivia was the now.
    This time Olivia slept, deep in the exhaustion of terror and misery, while her grandmother watched over her. That, Val decided, was her job now. In less soothing surroundings, Frank Brady thought of the child he’d seen that morning. He kept the image of her, those wide brown eyes holding trustingly to his, while he did his job.
    Sam Tanner was the now for Frank.
    Despite the hours in prison and the fact that his system was jumping for a hit, Sam’s looks had suffered little. It appeared as though he’d been prepped for the role of the afflicted lover, shocked and innocent and suffering, but still handsome enough to make the female portion of the audience long to save him.
    His hair was dark, thick and untidy. His eyes, a brilliant Viking blue, were shadowed. His love affair with cocaine had cost him some weight, but that only added a romantic, hollowed-out look to his face.
    His lips tended to tremble. His hands were never still.
    They’d taken away his bloody clothes and given him a washed-out gray shirt and slacks that bagged on him. They’d kept his belt and his shoelaces. He was on suicide watch, but had only begun to notice the lack of privacy. The full scope of his situation was still buried under the fog of shock and withdrawal from his drug of choice.
    The interrogation room had plain beige walls and the wide expanse of two-way glass. There was a single table, three chairs. His tended to wobble if he tried to lean back. A water fountain in the corner dispensed stingy triangular cups of lukewarm water, and the air was stuffy.
    Frank sat across from him, saying nothing. Tracy leaned against the wall and examined his own fingernails. The silence and overheated room had sweat sliding greasily down Sam’s back.
    “I don’t remember any more than I told you before.” Unable to stand the quiet, Sam let the words tumble out. He’d been so sure when they’d finished talking to him the first time, they’d let him go. Let him go so he could find out what they’d done with Julie, with Olivia.
    Oh God, Julie. Every time he thought of her, he saw blood, oceans of blood. Frank only nodded, his eyes patient. “Why don’t you tell me what you told me before? From the beginning.”
    “I keep telling you. I went home—”
    “You weren’t living there anymore, were you, Mr. Tanner?” This from Tracy, and just a little aggressive.
    “It’s still my home. The separation was just temporary, just until we worked some problems out.”
    “Right.” Tracy kept studying his fingernails. “That’s why your wife filed papers, got sole custody of the kid, why you had limited visitation and bought that palace on the beach.”
    “It was just formality.” Color washed in and out