The Aftermath

21

On the way back home from Oceanside, Tom called Samantha and let her and Drew know what he found out about his mother from the Oceanside police, which wasn't much. He then ran down what he found out from his mom's lawyer, which was even less.

"Should I call him?" Drew asked.

"If you really feel it is necessary, but don't go down to his office." Tom told her, "He probably has your contact information. You haven't moved in twelve years, unlike mom. I'm sure he can get a hold of you. Let him handle the details. That's what he is getting paid for."

"You sure you are going to be alright? Why don't you just come up here and hide out with the rest of us?" Drew asked.

"Need to check on a few things, and I can't do that from there. Besides, maybe I'll find something out and end this."

"Let's hope it's not the hard way." Drew answered.

"Right." Tom agreed.

Tom pulled into the driveway of his home beside the blue Taurus and found Teri waiting beside the front door in one of the porch chairs, writing on her laptop. "So far this could be a decent story Tom. This aftermath stuff is good copy."

"Glad you think so." Tom smiled, "Come on in." He offered.

"I'll grab the rocky-road first." She smiled.

"As you wish." He said and unlocked the door. On impulse he drew his gun before walking inside.

On the living-room wall was supposed to be a copy of the painting Starry Night by Van Gogh. It was Samantha's favorite painting. The replica had been removed and in its place was painted the word Murderer, in what looked like dried blood. Tom dropped to one knee, letting the keys in his left hand fall to the entryway tiles and brought the gun up into ready position. Adrenaline ripped through his blood stream spiking his awareness, which he projected into the house, searching for any sign of an intruder. The house was quite. The scrape of a shoe on concrete brought his head around, and he found Teri coming to a halt and dropping low into a crouch, a quart of ice-cream in her hand, her eyes wide, "What the fuck?" she mouthed to him.

He placed his left index finger to his lips and then, crouching low, went inside.

The blood message in the living-room wasn't the only damage. The painting was on the living-room floor, torn from the frame. It wasn't an original of course, but it was an expensive copy that he purchased for Samantha on their 10th anniversary. On the dining-room wall he found the same word, larger, covering the side wall. The kitchen was a wreck of broken glass and food containers. The smell of wine, vinegar and spices reeked from the whisking of the breeze coming through the broken sliding-glass door which led to the backyard. The dining table and chairs were tossed around haphazardly. Pots and pans were tossed from the cupboards. Two of the chairs were broken and one of the legs of the table was ripped off. "Shit." Tom whispered.

After checking the bottom floor he asked in a whisper for Teri to call the police and wait outside. She nodded and Tom made his way upstairs searching for intruders and checking the damage.

More slashes of blood were painted in the hallway, and in the master bedroom. It looked like Angie's room was spared until he looked closer at her bed. There was a dark seeping stain in her bed cover. Pulling back the blanket he found that a good amount of blood was poured onto her sheets and then covered by the blanket.

Every mirror on the top floor was broken. A razor knife had been taken to his mattress and the chairs in the master bedroom.

No one was in any of the closets waiting to pounce. Tom put his gun in his gun safe and went down stairs to wait for the police.