At home, light bathed his yard, the sun streamed through the bare branches of the forest in the east. The wind had nudged the remaining leaves to the ground, leaving a crunchy, colorful blanket beneath his feet. He would need to rake soon.
Last year, they'd accomplished the task as a family. Amanda and Mark raked leaves into giant piles, which the girls were supposed to shove into plastic bags. But the girls had started giggling and playing, and after a little work, the four of them were jumping in the colorful mounds.
The memory of that day stung, the wind kicking dust in his eyes, causing them to water. Pushing the memories away, he made his way to the front door.
His finger stopped just before he pushed the doorbell. He didn't want to wake the girls. He had a key, but if Amanda had set the alarm, and if she hadn't disarmed it yet, then he'd set it off as soon as he pushed the door open. He opted for a knock, opening the storm door and rapping softly against the wood. He heard a few beeps, barely audible, on the opposite side of the door before it swung open.
Amanda wore jeans and a long-sleeved teal button down shirt he'd bought her years earlier. The color accented the gold in her hair and the blue in her eyes, and she took his breath away.
"Good morning," she said. "Thanks for not ringing."
Dropping his gaze to her feet, he tried to calm his suddenly racing heart. He didn't want her to see the pain on his face again this morning. The pity he'd seen there the night before still stung.
He looked back into her face and smiled. "Hi. They still sleeping?"
"Uh-huh. Come on in."
He stepped inside and carried the two suitcases to the foot of the stairs.
"Thanks for bringing those by."
"No problem. Did they sleep okay?"
She nodded and made her way into the kitchen. "Yeah. I checked on Madi about a hundred times, but she seemed to be breathing fine."
"Sorry. I should've brought them back to my place. You didn't need that."
Amanda shook her head. "Oh, no, I couldn't have slept at all if they weren't here. I'd have worried all night."
He offered one curt nod. Of course. He couldn't be trusted with them.
She seemed to read his thoughts. "I'm just paranoid, that's all. I know you can take care of them."
He pulled out his favorite barstool at the corner of the long bar and sat.
"Coffee?"
"Love some."
Amanda poured him a cup and slid it across to him. He took a sip and smiled. "How come it doesn't taste like this when I make it?"
"Probably the coffee maker. Plus, I'm convinced things always taste better when someone else prepares them."
He chuckled. That was probably true. Even his sandwiches weren't as good as hers.
"You want some breakfast?"
"No, thanks." After his speech the night before about how he didn't need her, he figured he'd better get his own breakfast.
"I really don't mind."
"Why don't you sit?"
Amanda walked around the bar and slid into the barstool catty-corner to his. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"About Sheppard, yeah. I found some things out yesterday I thought you'd like to know."
She laid one hand, fingers splayed, against the countertop. "Okay, go ahead."
"Did you know he lost his license to practice medicine?"
She blinked. "No. He told me he wasn't seeing patients anymore, but—"
"He can't see patients anymore."
Her eyes widened. "Why?"
He laid his hand over hers on the cold granite, gently squeezing her fingers in his fist. "He was arrested for statutory rape."
The blood drained from her face. She sucked in a hitching breath and blew it out. "No, no, no." Her eyes filled with tears. "How old was she?"
He grabbed her other hand. She looked like she was about to crumble. He slipped off the chair and stood in front of her. "She was thirteen."
She yanked her hands away, covered her face, and sobbed. "It's my fault. It's my fault. I should've told. Years ago, I should've—"
"Shh. This isn't your fault." He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head to his chest. "It isn't your fault. He's responsible for—"
"If I had told . . . I should've told someone. I kept it hidden. I protected myself, and look what happened. Oh God, what have I done?"
"He lied to you, Amanda. He manipulated you. This isn't your fault."
Her body stiffened, and she tried to pull away. Reluctantly he released her and stepped back.
"You don't believe that," she said, anger flashing in her tear-filled eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"You blame me for what happened, and now you blame me for what happened to that girl."
He reached for her again, but she leaned away from him. He dropped his arms to his sides. "Why would you say that?"
She glared at him.
"Amanda—"
"Forget it. I don't want to talk about it."
In a sudden flash, he remembered the fear in her eyes as he'd read her memoir. Why hadn't he realized it at the time? One night in particular, he'd read about Amanda's first counseling session after that monster had seduced her. He could picture her in his office after Sheppard took off her clothes. He could imagine that . . . pervert, sitting across from her, fantasizing about her as she shared her deepest hurts with him. Rage overcame him, heat filled him until everything was tinted in red. He escaped so she wouldn't see the murder on his face. That night was the first time he'd seriously considered killing the man.
Now, he saw the scene from her point of view. Had he ever told her it wasn't her fault? Surely she already knew that, but . . . looking at her right now . . .
He dragged her into his arms, ignoring her protests. "Oh, Amanda, of course it wasn't your fault—"
She pushed her hands into his chest. "I don't want to talk about it. And it doesn't matter now."
"Of course it matters."
"Let me go!"
He dropped his arms and stepped back.
"Forget it. It doesn't matter now." She spun around and marched down the hall toward the bathroom. A moment later she emerged with a box of tissues in one hand, a single tissue in the other. She swiped it across her face to clear the tears.
"So he lost his license? But did he go to jail?"
He stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor, halfway between the kitchen counter and the dining room table. How could she shift gears like that? He crossed his arms to keep from reaching out for her again. "Charges were dropped."
"Why?"
"We aren't sure, but Chris theorized the girl refused to testify against him."
"That makes sense."
He lifted his eyebrows. "What about that makes sense?"
Her cheeks reddened, and she grabbed a fresh tissue to hide behind, dabbing her eyes with it. "She probably thought she loved him."
"Right," he said. "Sorry."
"Why are you sorry, Mark? You haven't done anything wrong."
His wife was weeping and refused to let him comfort her. Obviously, he'd done plenty wrong.
"Is there anything else?" she asked.
"I started looking into the names you gave me, but I can't find any connections so far. I called the conference coordinator and asked for the names and workplaces of people at the conference. They agreed to send me the list."
"You're kidding. I can't believe they'd do that."
"They didn't at first. I had to go to the chapter president. I told her the story, and . . ." He shrugged. There was no logical reason why that woman should have emailed him the list. But she had. He'd seen it in his inbox the night before. Unfortunately, with the girls at his apartment for dinner, he hadn't had time to look through it.
"Persuasive, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Women fall all over themselves to help me."
She almost smiled. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. May I?" He indicated the barstool. She nodded, so he slipped back into his seat. "S
o he's teaching now."
"He told me that."
He smirked. "You could've told me, you know."
"Sorry."
"He's written a couple of textbooks." She nodded again. "Obviously you knew that, too."
"No. Well, he told me he was writing one. I didn't know he had published anything."
"I figure that's the connection. Through editors or agents or . . . someone, he found out you were going last weekend. I ordered a copy of each of his textbooks and should get them later this week. Hopefully from them, I'll be able to figure out who his agent is. You mentioned yours in the acknowledgments. Maybe he did, too."
"Who's the publisher?"
"I didn't notice. So, have you thought any more about not publishing the memoir?"
She slid her hand beneath her hair and rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't know. Last night, I had decided it was stupid to publish it with this stuff going on."
"Yes! You're right. It's crazy to go forward with it." He cocked his head to the side. "Wait a minute, what do you mean you had decided?"
"Well, obviously he needs to be stopped. I should've told the truth about him years ago. To think he continued seeing patients and doing . . . what he was doing for all those years, and I could've stopped him. I think—"
"You can stop him without publishing that thing, Amanda."
"How exactly?"
"I don't know. We'll think of something—"
"I want him exposed."
"But last night . . ." He narrowed his eyes. "What made you even consider it?"
She dropped her gaze to her lap. Why was she nervous all of a sudden? "Nothing, really. I just remembered what you said, and I heard back from an editor I sent it to, and—"
"What editor? I told you not to send it. After what happened last weekend, I'd think you'd be more careful."
"Yeah, but . . . this was different. It was . . . it was Alan."
His hands clenched into fists. "You let your . . . your boyfriend read it?"
"He's not my boyfriend, he's a friend. And he's an editor. And that's the point of these conferences, to connect with editors."
"Connect . . . hook up . . ."
"Don't be disgusting. We're just friends."
Obviously they were more than friends. Alan rescued her from Sheppard, and now he knew her deepest secrets. What else had she told him? Had she told him about the problems they were having in their marriage? Had Alan offered to help? Suddenly, in his mind, Alan had the voice of an angel and the body of a snake, slithering into their lives. "So what did Alan have to say?"
She shifted in her chair and looked beyond him. "He said it was well-written and compelling, but he wouldn't consider it for publication."
"Why not? Think of the quality time you two could spend together."
"Don't." She met his eyes and sighed. "He thinks Sheppard sounded like a sociopath, and he wouldn't even think of putting me in danger like that."
Irrationally, Mark wanted to kill the man more now than he had before. How dare he care about her that much? But on the other hand . . .
"Your friend's right. You can't publish it."
She shook her head. "I don't know. I thought you were telling me not to because you were ashamed of me."
"Why would you—?"
"But if Alan agrees with you," she continued, "then maybe I shouldn't publish it. He has no reason to lie to me."
Mark's eyebrows lifted. "You think I've been lying to you?"
"I think you don't want anyone to know what a . . . a tramp you married."
Her words were worse than any physical blow. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, sweetheart, how could you think that of me?"
He felt her jump out of her seat, heard her walk away. He opened his eyes to find her dumping out his unfinished coffee. "I'll think about it. I don't know what to do. If I don't publish, and that will make me safe, then maybe that's what I should do."
He blinked, tried to switch gears. He knew her well enough to know there was no point in bringing up her remark again, not now, no matter how wrong she was. She'd closed that door, and it would take a mortar blast to reopen it. "You definitely shouldn't publish. But safe? I don't know about that."
She turned and leaned against the counter. "What do you mean? You don't want me to publish it so he'll leave me alone. If I don't publish it—"
"Well, he has to know you're not going to publish it."
She blinked. Her shoulders slumped. "I hadn't thought of that."
"If you decide not to . . . Hmm, I don't think you should contact him."
She shook her head, color draining from her face. "Definitely not."
"I could, I suppose."
Her eyes widened. "No. Please don't. He's . . . he'll take that as a challenge or something. If you talk to him—"
"I agree. However, if I'm right and someone is feeding him information about you, then when you put the word out you've decided not to publish it, maybe he'll hear."
"Maybe," she said, the word wobbly. "But—"
"Of course we won't know for sure. And we don't know what he'll do. Even if you decide not to publish it, he could still come after you."
She tilted her head toward the floor and rubbed the back of her neck. "Right. So you're saying—"
"You have to assume he's dangerous, regardless of what you decide. But you'll be safer if you don't publish it. Either way, stay vigilant."
She met his eyes. "Right. Okay."
"Amanda, about what you said earlier, about me being ashamed—"
"It's time for you to go."
"You're wrong."
She ignored him.
How could she believe he was ashamed of her? And why wouldn't she at least talk to him about it?
She turned to the sink and began scrubbing it, though the stainless steel already gleamed in the morning light. "Good-bye, Mark."
He watched her for a moment before turning, defeated, to the door.
Fourteen
Thank God her house was clean. Not that Roxie would mind a little dust, but Amanda had picked up the downstairs the night before in preparation for Alan's visit, and everything still gleamed after Mark's cleaning frenzy the previous weekend. So when her agent called Friday morning to say she was in the neighborhood, Amanda was happy to invite her to the house.
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. Roxie stood on the front porch, her bleach-blond hair like a puffy halo in the morning sun, shading her overly-beautified face. Her lips, clad in bright fuchsia to match her blouse, were parted in a wide grin. "Ah, my favorite client!"
Amanda suspected Roxie had a lot of favorite clients. She swung the door open wide. "Come on in."
Only when Roxie stepped inside did Amanda notice a man standing behind her.
A quick glance at Roxie showed a peculiar gleam in the older woman's eyes. "This is Baxter McIlroy, the newest agent at Richardson & Associates."
At least twenty years' Roxie's junior, the man wore a well-tailored suit. He shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Johnson."
"Amanda, please."
He dipped his chin. "I know you two need to talk, and I planned to wait in the car, but I hoped I could borrow your bathroom."
"Oh, sure." Amanda pointed toward the hallway. "Right back there, second door on the right."
After he disappeared down the hall, Amanda turned to Roxie, eyebrows raised. "Isn't he a little young for you?"
"You're only as old as you feel." Roxie winked. "And with him around, I feel about twenty-five. Unfortunately, since he works for me, there's nothing between us but a lot of sexual tension. We're like the Moonlighting of the publishing industry."
"Moonlighting?"
"Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd? Oh, never mind. I forget how young you are."
Amanda chuckled. "Come on in and sit down." She indicated a barstool and stepped into the kitchen.
"Tell me you have something delicious for me," Roxie said. "I know it was short notice, but I always expect something d
electable when I come here."
Amanda anticipated her request and had taken a hunk of leftover pound cake out of the freezer as soon as she'd called. She'd been saving it for Sophie—it was her favorite dessert. Amanda sliced a couple of pieces and slid them across the bar, along with a cup of whipped cream-topped coffee. Where was Roxie storing all the calories she ate? Most of it must've gone straight to her button-straining bosom. The conservative gray suit looked anything but on her.
After a couple of bites and mmms of delight, Roxie started the conversation Amanda was dreading. "You're thinking about putting the memoir aside."
"Yes."
Roxie swallowed another bite. "Why would you do that? It's heart-wrenching and emotional, and it'll increase your platform and help you connect with your followers."
Amanda briefly caught her agent up on the events of the previous week.
Roxie finished her cake while Amanda talked, sipping her coffee between bites but studying Amanda intently. A few moments of silence followed before she said, "You're really afraid he'll come after you?"
"I wasn't at first, but . . . Well, I guess I've always been afraid of seeing him. I thought as long as I used my pen name, and I kept my photograph off it, he wouldn't know in time to stop me. But now he knows, and I'm not sure it's worth the risk."
"Oh, but darling, it's so good. I couldn't put it down. Have you thought about making a novel out of it? It would take a little tweaking—"
"No. I'm not a novelist, and I don't want to be. And Gabriel wouldn't accept that."
"But this guy needs to be stopped. Think of the impact you could have. Think of the damage he's done, what he still might be doing."
Like that brave girl who'd accused him. Her courage had amounted to nothing. Gabriel wasn't in prison. He could still be preying on teenage girls. She shook off a warm flush of guilt. "You're right, of course." Not publishing the memoir would be selfish, wouldn't it? Why would Mark ask her to do something so selfish? To protect her, or to protect himself?
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