River’s End by Nora Roberts

all over it. Your bloody footprints are all over the house. In the living room, the hall, going up the stairs. There are bloody fingerprints on the doorjamb of your little girl’s bedroom. They’re yours. There was no one else there, Sam, no burglar like you tried to tell us yesterday. No intruder. There was no sign of a break-in, nothing was stolen, your wife wasn’t raped. There were three people in the house that night. Julie, Livvy and you.”
    “There had to be someone else.”
    “No, Sam. No one else.”
    “My God, my God, my God.” Shaking, he laid his head on the table and sobbed like a child.
    When he had finished sobbing, he confessed.
    Frank read the signed statement for the third time, got up, walked around the tiny coffee room and settled for the nasty dregs in the pot. With the cup half full of what even the desperate would call sludge, he sat at the table and read the confession again.
    When his partner came in, Frank spoke without looking up. “This thing’s got holes, Tracy. It’s got holes you could drive that old Caddy you love so much through without scraping the paint.”
    “I know it.” Disgusted, Tracy set a fresh pot on to brew, then went to the scarred refrigerator to steal someone’s nicely ripened Bartlett pear. He bit in, grunted with satisfaction, then sat. “But the guy’s whacked, Frank. Jonesing, jittery. And he was flying that night. He’s never going to remember it step-by-step.”
    He swiped at pear juice dribbling down his chin. “We know he did it. We got the physical evidence, motive, opportunity. We place him at the scene. Hell, we got a witness. Now we got a confession. We did our job, Frank.”
    “Yeah, but it doesn’t sit right in the gut. Not all the way right. See here where he says he broke the music box, the kid’s Disney music box. There was no music box. He’s getting the two nights confused, blending them into one.”
    “He’s a fucking cokehead,” Tracy said impatiently. “His story about coming in after a break-in doesn’t wash. She let him in—her sister confirmed it was something she’d do. This guy ain’t no Richard Kimble, pal. No one-armed man, no TV show. He picked up the scissors, jammed them into her back while she was turned. She goes down—no defensive wounds—then he just keeps hacking at her while she’s trying to crawl away. We got the blood trail, the ME’s report. We know how it went down. Makes me sick.”
    He pitched the pear core into the trash, then scraped his chair back to get fresh coffee.
    “I’ve been working bodies for seven years now,” Frank murmured. “It’s one of the worst I’ve seen. A man does that to a woman, he’s got powerful feelings for her.”
    He sighed himself, rubbed his tired eyes. “I’d like a cleaner statement, that’s all. Some high-dollar lawyer’s going to dance through those holes before this is done.”
    With a shake of his head, he rose. “I’m going home, see if I remember what my wife and kid look like.”
    “Lawyer or no lawyer,” Tracy said as Frank started out, “Sam Tanner’s going down for this, and he’ll spend the rest of his worthless life in a cage.”
    “Yeah, he will. And that little girl’s going to have to live with that. That’s what makes me sick, Tracy. That’s what eats through my gut.”
    He thought about it on the drive home, through the impossible traffic on the freeway, down the quiet street where the houses, all tiny and tidy like his own, were jammed close together with patches of lawn gasping from the lack of rain. Olivia’s face was lodged in his mind, the rounded cheeks of childhood, the wounded, too-adult eyes under striking dark brows. And the whisper of the first words she’d spoken to him:
    The monster’s here.
    Then he pulled into the short driveway beside his little stucco house, and it was all so blessedly normal. Noah had left his bike crashed on its side in the yard, and his wife’s impatiens were wilting because she’d forgotten