"It's not your fault," Mark said. "Can you tell me when that would have been?"
"Well, let's see, Amanda sent it to me around the first of September, so it would have been back then."
"So before New York."
"Definitely."
Mark wrote knew about memoir 9/1 on his sheet. The connection seemed strong enough, but Amanda had been careful to keep Sheppard's name out of the memoir. How would McIlroy have known the psychologist in the book was his former professor?
Mark tapped his paper and considered the mystery. "Okay, so here's the million dollar question: Does he know Amanda's decided not to publish it?"
"Yes, he does. In fact, when we were at the house last week—"
"At whose house?" he asked, gripping the paper in his fist.
"Um, Baxter and I stopped by your house last week."
"What day was that?"
"Friday. We were on our way to a conference in Falmouth. We were only there a few minutes."
"And McIlroy was there the whole time?"
"He was in the bathroom."
Listening. He'd been listening and gathering information. Or searching the downstairs. In her office maybe . . . Mark tapped his pencil on his pad of paper again. He wrote on his notes, at house Friday.
"Maybe . . . maybe he left the box," Mark muttered.
"What box?"
Mark told Roxie about the box he'd found on Amanda's front porch Saturday morning. "I've been picturing Sheppard on our doorstep, but maybe it was McIlroy."
"He was with me in Falmouth."
"All night?"
"Well, not all night. But we were together for dinner."
"Did you see him between dinner and breakfast?"
"There was a meeting that ended about nine. I didn't see him after that."
"Plenty of time to drive back to Norwell and leave the box for Amanda. I'm not saying he did it, I'm saying it's a possibility. On the drive to Falmouth, did you talk about Amanda or the memoir or anything? Did he ask questions about her?"
"Nope. Never."
"Did he seem surprised or worried or anything when you mentioned Gabriel Sheppard?"
"I didn't mention his name, Mark, because I didn't know it. Remember, Amanda doesn't use the name in the manuscript."
"Right. Okay." Mark studied the notes he'd made. On paper, this guy looked like the connection between his wife and that madman Sheppard, but there was something missing. Could it be a coincidence that he worked for Roxie, or had he gone to work for her to spy on Amanda? And if so, then how did Sheppard find out that M.L. Johnson was the girl named Amanda Prince he'd had an affair with over a decade earlier? And why would McIlroy know about the affair? Why would a professor share that with his student?
It was weak, and yet, this was the only connection they'd made to Sheppard. And if he was the link, then McIlroy would have told Sheppard Amanda wasn't going to publish the manuscript, which meant that maybe, just maybe, Sheppard would leave her alone.
Mark felt the slightest loosening of tension in his chest. Amanda would divorce him, but if she were safe, he might survive it.
"Okay, one more question."
"Why am I not having this conversation with Amanda?" Roxie asked.
"It's a long story. Don't worry, I'll tell her about it. And you can, too. I'm not trying to keep anything from her. Does McIlroy know about Amanda's plans to go out of town this weekend?"
"I doubt it. Where's she going?"
"She's teaching at a hotel in the mountains. And she has a book signing in Concord."
"That's right," Roxie said. "Honestly, I'd forgotten about that. We booked the signing a long time ago. I'm sure I haven't mentioned it to Baxter."
"But would he have access to your files?"
"It doesn't matter, because he could've found out about the book signing on her website. And the teaching thing—I don't keep track of that stuff, so it wouldn't be in my files. I don't even know where she's going to be."
Mark wrote check website on his sheet of paper.
"Where is her book signing publicized?"
"On her website, probably on fliers at the bookstore itself. I mean, if that guy—Sheppard, right?—if he wanted to find her, all he has to do is check her website."
"Right." Mark paced back to the open door of his truck and tossed the notebook on the seat. He raked his free hand through his hair and pictured Sheppard reading Amanda's blog, possibly contacting her through it, maybe pretending to be someone else.
Roxie continued. "But the guy knows where she lives, right? So why would he bother to go to New Hampshire?"
"Why did he go to New York? Maybe to make sure I wasn't with her. Maybe to catch her off-guard. I don't know."
"All right. I'll talk to Baxter—"
"No, don't tell him we talked. If he is Sheppard's link, then we might be able to use that connection to feed him information. I don't want Sheppard to know we've figured him out."
Roxie's voice rose. "So I'm supposed to let this guy keep working for me, even though he's probably a . . . a sleaze bag using me to get to Amanda?"
"We don't know that yet. This is speculation. Please, act normal until we have more information."
She sighed. "Yeah, okay. I'll try."
"I didn't tell Amanda I was calling you, so she might be surprised when you talk to her. Tell her whatever you want. Like I said, I'm not trying to keep anything from her."
"Okay. Listen, Mark, keep her safe, okay?"
"That's what I'm trying to do."
Mark finished the phone call and leaned against his truck. His fingers were numb, his bare arms frozen in the cold wind, but he hadn't noticed until that moment.
In the shock of Annalise's sudden appearance and the crumbling of his marriage, he'd forgotten about Amanda's scheduled trip until the moment he'd asked Roxie about it. Obviously she wouldn't want him to go with her now, which meant she'd be alone, unprotected. Maybe she'd be safe at the inn, but at the book signing in Concord, she would be vulnerable. How could Mark protect her if she refused to speak to him?
Amanda stood in the entryway after Mark dropped her off, too shocked to move. How dare Mark go crazy with jealousy because she'd invited Alan over for dinner when he'd slept with his ex-girlfriend?
She pounded into the kitchen, glared at the mess from breakfast, and set to work cleaning it. While she was unloading the dishwasher, a plate slipped from her hand and smashed on the tile floor, scattering along the baseboards. Fingers shaking, she grabbed her short-handled broom, fell to her hands and knees, and swept the shards into the dustbin.
Stupid plate. Stupid dishwasher. Stupid shaking fingers. Angry tears landed on the back of her hand, and she wiped them on her shirt, crawling on the floor to get every last shard.
She finished with the mess, then put each plate carefully away in the cupboard. She turned back to the dishwasher and tried to lift the silverware basket out. It held fast, stuck somehow, so she pulled harder. When it dislodged, the basket lifted with such force, silverware flew all over her floor, skidding across the tile. Amanda let out a stream of obscenities that rivaled her earlier display on the beach. She picked up the silverware and tossed each piece in the sink with a clatter.
She couldn't do this right now. She couldn't think. She had to move. She headed for the front door, yanked it open, and stalked outside. She pounded up her driveway toward the main road. When she reached it, she turned around and walked back, then repeated the circuit.
It had been years since Mark slept with Annalise. For their entire marriage and longer, he'd been lying to her about his ex-girlfriend. After everything they'd been through together, he'd never told her the truth. Never even hinted at it!
She kicked a pinecone out of her path. Instead of sailing into the woods like she'd hoped, it skidded on the pavement and rolled to the edge of the driveway. Amanda stopped, approached the offensive item, and kicked it again.
And then the jerk had the nerve to accuse her of being unforgiving! He'd actually compared he
r to his mother, said she was going to turn out like her—a bitter old shrew. Well, he hadn't met bitter yet.
She was walking toward the road when a car turned into her driveway, startling her. She froze, watched it stop, back out, and drive back onto the road going in the opposite direction. Probably someone missed a turn on her winding street, but the event jolted her out of her anger long enough to remember she wasn't supposed to be outside by herself. Well, if Sheppard got to her now, Mark would never forgive himself.
Would she really put herself in harm's way just to hurt him? She smirked, considering it. Much as she'd love to get back at Mark for what he'd done, even that wouldn't be worth enduring Gabriel Sheppard.
She ran back to the house and locked the door behind her.
Her anger began to dissipate. She had to find something to do. No way could she work on her book. She considered cooking, but she'd already made a mess of the kitchen. She filled her coffee mug with the cold remains of the breakfast pot and popped it in the microwave. While it rotated, she leaned against the counter and stared.
Numbness replaced her anger. She welcomed it, fearing what hid behind it.
Warm coffee in hand, Amanda settled on the couch and turned on the TV. She burrowed beneath a blanket. When Mark lived there, whenever she turned on the TV, she found it set on ESPN. In the last two years, Mark had watched more TV than he ever had before. She'd learned to drown it out, pounding away on her keyboard or hiding in the kitchen. He'd drowned her out by turning up the volume.
She flipped through the channels. She hardly ever watched TV, and never during the day. She found daytime talk shows, news, and endless decorating and home shows. Mark hated the fixer-upper shows—apparently he got enough of that at work. She shook her head. She had to stop thinking about him.
Finally, she settled on a news program. Two men and a woman were debating—something about the economy. The tax rate. They were shouting at each other, but Amanda couldn't follow their arguments. How could people be arguing about anything as mundane as taxes when the world had come crashing down?
She flipped the channel, looking for something more engaging. A rerun of a doctor's show filled with conflict and anger and accusations. She flipped again and again, but nothing drew her in. Everything reminded her of Mark. He permeated her thoughts until his face was on the head of every man on TV. She hated him. Oh, how she hated him.
Her breath hitched, her throat ached. She turned off the TV and headed for the stairs, feeling her way to her bedroom through a haze of tears.
She fell onto Mark's side of the bed, wishing he were there. And wishing he were dead. If he were dead, grieving him would make sense. As it was, she would still have to look into the eyes that had lied to her, treat him like he still existed for the sake of her daughters, when she now knew the man she had fallen in love with had never really existed.
Of course he wasn't perfect—she knew that. After nine years of marriage, she thought she knew all his flaws. But she'd always trusted Mark Truman Johnson. Truth—truth was his middle name.
Oh, he'd gotten the name from his mother—Truman was her maiden name. And Pat the dragon was all about truth. She wielded it like a weapon, unsheathing it at the slightest provocation. Sometimes with no provocation at all, Pat would use the truth to keep the people she claimed to love tiptoeing on the shards of their shame.
But Mark? Her Mark had held truth like treasures, never weapons. Her Mark.
Amanda pulled the covers over her head and gave in to sobs.
Two years earlier, when she confessed her relationship with her psychiatrist, if Mark had turned away from her in disgust, she would have been hurt, but she wouldn't have been surprised. He was so perfect, and she so flawed. How could she have blamed him? But he didn't reject her. Instead he'd claimed only to be angry with Gabriel. But now . . . Could she believe that now?
Could she believe anything he'd ever said to her?
She'd always thought of Mark as the honest one. Oh, she wasn't a liar, but she didn't stand on truth like he did. She'd always pictured him like that—like a man whose foundation was built on truth. Almost as if his height came from the truth he stood on. And—she was barely able to face it—she knew she'd ordered her life on Mark's truth. She hadn't had her own foundation to stand on, so she'd nudged herself onto his. Mark was strong. He could support them both. It was why she'd been so confused by his decision to go to church, to rely on some big, invisible God when he was so strong by himself. He'd carried them both for their entire marriage.
And it was all a lie.
Like living through an earthquake, her world was crumbling beneath her feet, and she knew she would be swallowed up in the void.
Because if Mark couldn't be trusted, then the foundation of her life was gone.
Mark was hauling out the last of the demolished bathroom when his phone rang. He saw the familiar number, but he couldn't place it. He tossed the heavy bag into the Dumpster and answered it.
"Mr. Johnson? It's Nancy at the school. Your wife didn't pick up the girls, and she's not answering her phone."
"I'm on my way." Running to his truck, he yelled to one of his employees that he'd be back. In the cab, he jammed his foot on the gas, dialing the phone at the same time. Amanda didn't answer, so he tried her best friend.
"Jamie, it's Mark. Have you talked to Amanda?"
"I'm outside your house right now. Her car's in the driveway, but she isn't answering the door. Is something wrong?"
"The school just called. She didn't pick up the girls. You have to get in there."
"I don't have a key."
Mark turned toward the school, cutting off a car in the process. He spoke louder than the blaring horn behind him. "Go into the backyard. There's a hide-a-key."
Mark waited while she did what he asked.
"Okay, where is it?"
"On the porch, there are three pots on the far side. You see them?"
"Uh-huh."
"Underneath the largest one."
"Okay, hold on." He waited while she looked, hearing the screech of clay against wood. "I don't see it."
"It might be between the pot and the tray."
"Okay." He heard a grunt and the sound of rocks scraping together. "Yeah, there it is. I'll let myself in and call you if there's a problem."
"Can you keep the line open, please? I need to know she's okay."
Jamie panted into the phone, probably running back to the front door. "Okay. I'm going in now."
The door creaked open. He waited for the sound of the alarm. Instead, he heard a scream.
Twenty-One
Amanda sat up in bed and blinked in the brightness. She cut the scream off and scanned the room. She was on the wrong side of the bed, fully clothed. And it was daytime.
And then she remembered. Mark. Annalise. The nightmare. Gabriel chasing her. She'd heard the door open—Gabriel behind her. And Mark was gone with Annalise. And Amanda was alone.
She covered her heart with her hands. The dream had seemed so real.
Then she heard footsteps, someone running up the stairs. Her heart floundered, raced. She had to hide. She looked around. Where could she go that he wouldn't find her? There was no time.
Fear and confusion left her paralyzed.
A moment later, her bedroom door flew open and crashed against the wall. Jamie stood in the opening. Her gaze darted around the room before she met Amanda's eyes.
"Are you okay? What happened?"
Amanda's breath whooshed out of her, leaving her lungs like bread dough, pounded flat. "What . . . ? I don't . . ."
Jamie crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and hugged her, pressing her head against the soft suede of her jacket. "Why did you scream, Amanda?" she asked softly, rubbing her back. "Are you all right?"
She spoke into the suede. "I . . . I had a nightmare, and then I heard you, I guess."
"Okay. You're okay now." Jamie shifted and spoke again. "Mark? She's safe. She was asleep."
> Mark's voice carried through the phone pressed against Jamie's ear. "Are you sure there's nobody there? Why did she scream?"
"She said it was just—"
"I heard what she said. Are you sure?"
Amanda pushed herself away from Jamie. "Hang up the phone." Jamie reached her free arm out to stroke Amanda's hair, but she swatted it away. "Hang up the phone. He doesn't get to know anything about me."
"Oh, okay," Jamie said. "Mark, I gotta go."
"Wait. Tell her I'm getting the girls. I should be there in—"
Jamie interrupted. "Can you keep them for a while? She needs some time here."
Mark had the girls? How dare he get them without asking her? "Why does he have them? Tell him—"
"Amanda," Jamie said, "calm down. You didn't pick them up, and you weren't answering your phone."
She looked at the clock. Sure enough, it was almost four. She should've picked up the girls half an hour ago.
"Mark, Amanda needs a little time here."
"Fine. I'll be there in an hour. Tell her we need to talk."
"I'm not talking to him."
"Did you hear that?" Jamie asked.
After a pause, Mark's tinny voice said, "Can you put her on the phone?"
Holding the phone out to her, Jamie questioned Amanda with her eyes. Amanda shook her head.
"Uh, she's not up for it right now."
There was a pause during which Amanda imagined her husband running a hand through his hair. She knew him so well. She didn't know him at all.
"I need to talk to her about Sheppard. Can you ask her if she'll meet me somewhere after she drops the girls off tomorrow?"
Jamie held her hand over the mouthpiece. "Did you hear that?"
Amanda nodded. "Do you know what he's talking about?"
Jamie shook her head. "No idea."
"Okay. Tomorrow at the diner."
Jamie finished her phone call and hung up, slipping the phone into the pocket of her blazer. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
Amanda sunk back onto the pillows, finding she couldn't speak the words. Couldn't bear to think them.
Mark wanted to talk about Sheppard. Did it even matter anymore? As the second man who’d betrayed her tried to protect her from the first man who’d betrayed her, Amanda wondered who would protect her from him. Or maybe the third man would also be a betrayer. Maybe the third man and the fourth man and every man—maybe they were all capable of nothing better than betrayal. Maybe she'd been foolish to ever believe in anyone.
Finding Amanda Page 20