The Murder HouseBook - 2016
Trying to escape her troubled past and rehabilitate a career on the rocks, former New York City cop Jenna Murphy hardly expects her lush and wealthy surroundings to be a hotbed of grisly depravity. But when a Hollywood power broker and his mistress are found dead in the abandoned Murder House, the gruesome crime scene rivals anything Jenna experienced in Manhattan. And what at first seems like an open and shut case turns out to have as many shocking secrets as the Murder House itself, as Jenna quickly realizes that the mansion's history is much darker than even the town's most salacious gossips could have imagined.
As more bodies surface, and the secret that Jenna has tried desperately to escape closes in on her, she must risk her own life to expose the truth-before the Murder House claims another victim. Full of the twists and turns that have made James Patterson the world's #1 bestselling writer, The Murder House is a chilling, page-turning story of murder, money, and revenge.
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It's not that I don't care about anything besides my job -- it's that the job doesn't let you leave. You see death and misery and suffering, and you don't just click that off when you go home; it doesn't wash off in the shower or vanish with a lover's embrace. You are polluted, toxic, and so you hold back so you don't infect someone else with the poison. You keep part of yourself segregated, hidden.
It's a shrike," I say. "A small bird, yes. No large talons, no great wingspan. Not what you'd think of as a bird of prey. You're right it looks harmless. But guess how it kills its food?"
"Too bad you realized it after you tossed me this gun. Life's a game of inches, isn't it? If it had come to you just a few seconds earlier, I wouldn't be holding this gun. That's gotta sting."
"No one ever leaves alive / The house at 7 Ocean Drive," she says in her best ghoulish horror-movie voice, repeating the poem she'd heard. "Not friend or foe, not man or mouse / Can e'er survive the Murder House."
- And he couldn't hurt a june bug with a sledgehammer.
He makes a noise as he finishes another sip. "No. you're paid to so what I tell you to do."
"I'm a detective," I say. "Once in a while, I try to detect."
My uncle gives me a look that I remember seeing as a child that look an adult gives when a kid is being adorably precocious, a combination of pride and annoyance. But in this case, the annoyance is outweighing the pride.
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