River’s End

changed them, the fast-forward love affair sliding, from all reports, into a blissful marriage that had produced a much-loved child. Then the disintegration of that marriage, of love turning to obsession and obsession to violence.
    And a section on the child. One who had seen the horrors of that violence. A section on the woman she’d become and how she lived with it.
    Murder didn’t stop with death. That, Noah thought as he turned toward home, was something he’d learned from his father. And what, most of all, he tried to illustrate in his work.
    It hurt that the man he admired and respected most didn’t understand that. He parked, jingling his keys in his hand as he walked toward his front door. It annoyed him that he couldn’t seem to shake that need for his father’s approval. If I’d been a cop, he thought, scowling, that would’ve been just dandy. Then we’d sit around over a beer and talk shop, crime and punishment, and he’d brag about his son, the detective, at his weekly pinochle game.
    But I write about murders instead of investigating them, so it’s like some slightly embarrassing secret.
    “Get over it, Brady,” he muttered, then started to jab the key in the lock. He didn’t need to. He didn’t have to be a homicide detective to see the door was unlocked and not quite closed. The muscles of his stomach clutched into one tight, nasty ball as he gently nudged the door open.
    He stood, staring in shock at the destruction of his house.
    It looked as if a team of mad demons had danced over every surface, ripped and torn at every fabric, smashed every piece of glass.
    He leaped inside, already swearing and felt only a quick flutter of relief when he saw his stereo equipment still in place.
    Not a burglary then, he thought, hearing the buzz of blood in his head as he waded through the mess. Papers were strewn everywhere, glass and pottery crunched under his feet.
    He found his bedroom in worse condition. The mattress had been shredded, the filling spilling out like guts from a belly wound. Drawers were upended and thrown against the wall to splinter the wood. When he found his favorite jeans sliced from the waist down to their frayed hems, the buzz turned to a roar.
    “She’s crazy. She’s fucking insane.”
    Then anger turned to sheer horror. “No, no, no,” he hissed under his breath as he raced from the bedroom into his office. “Oh God, oh shit.”
    His basketball trophy was now stuck dead center in his computer monitor. The keyboard, ripped away from the unit, was covered with potting soil from the ornamental lemon tree that had thrived in the corner. His files were scattered, torn, covered with dirt.
    Before it had been destroyed, his computer had been used to generate the single clean sheet of paper and message that was taped to the base of the trophy: I WON’T STOP UNTIL YOU DO.
    Rage washed through him like a tidal wave, in one vicious, screaming flood. Before he could think, he dug for his phone, then only cursed bitterly when he found the receiver smashed.
    “Okay, Caryn, you want war, you got war. Lunatic bitch.”
    He stormed back into the living room for the briefcase he’d dropped, tearing through it for his cell phone.
    When he realized his hands were shaking, he walked outside, sucked in air. then just sat down and dropped his head into his hands.
    He was sick, dizzy, with the fury still pumping through him in fast, hot beats. But under it was the baffled outrage of the victim. When he was able to use the phone, he didn’t call Caryn, but his father.
    “Dad. I’ve got a problem here. Can you come over?”
    Twenty minutes later, Frank pulled up and Noah was sitting in exactly the same spot. He hadn’t worked up the energy to go back inside but got to his feet now.
    “Are you all right?” Moving fast, Frank came up the walk, took his son by the arm.
    “Yeah, but . . . well, take a look for yourself.” He gestured toward the door, then braced himself to step inside.
    “God almighty. Noah.” This time Frank laid a hand on Noah’s shoulder in support, even as he scanned the room, picking up details in the chaos. “When did you find this?”
    “About a half hour ago, I guess. I had an appointment in Burbank, just got back. I’ve been gone all day doing research.”
    “Did you call the cops?”
    “No, not yet.”
    “That’s the first step. I’ll do it.” He took Noah’s phone and made the call. “The electronics are still here,” he began when he