Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  "You don't have to be sorry. I was worried about you. Any news from your friend?"

  In the kitchen, Amanda filled a glass with water and took a sip. "Nope. I think we've figured out who Gabriel's contact is, though."

  He inhaled sharply. "Who?"

  "An agent named Baxter McIlroy."

  Alan blew out his breath. "Never heard of him."

  "He's new." She made her way into the living room. "Works for Roxie. He was one of Sheppard's students a few years ago."

  "Wow. What did he say when you confronted him?"

  "We didn't confront him. We're feeding him false information to try to keep him away from me."

  "That's a good idea. So things are looking up then?"

  Amanda set her water on the coffee table and collapsed on the sofa. "Not really. I'm filing for divorce."

  "Oh, Amanda, I'm sorry."

  She swallowed. The words I'm fine almost escaped, but they would have sounded cavalier, and they would have been a lie. "Thank you."

  "I know how hard it is. After my wife and I decided to call it quits, I felt like . . . like a leaf in a hurricane, you know what I mean? For weeks the slightest things would toss me here and there. I'd smell her perfume, or I'd walk by a place we'd been together, and the memories would come flooding back. It was . . . unbearable."

  "Yeah. That describes it."

  "But it gets better, I promise."

  "I hope so. I'm numb right now."

  "I bet. Does that mean you don't want company this weekend? I figured Mark had the kids, and maybe you'd have some time for dinner or something. As friends, of course."

  "I can't," she said, thankful for the excuse. "I'm headed to New Hampshire to teach some classes."

  "Classes? Where?"

  "A retreat for interior designers. I'm working Friday night, Saturday morning, and Saturday night. I'll be pretty busy."

  "What about Saturday afternoon? Are you free—?"

  "I have a book signing."

  "Oh. That's too bad. Where in New Hampshire are the classes?"

  "Up near Waterville Valley."

  "At a hotel, or . . . ?"

  Amanda sighed. "Honestly, I really need to be alone. I'm sorry. You can understand that, can't you?"

  He chuckled softly. "Of course I do. But alone isn't really safe. Maybe I could stop by the bookstore to check on you."

  "You'd go all the way to New Hampshire, just to check on me?"

  He was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, "Actually, I think I would. Especially with what's going on. I mean, if I can help, it would be worth it. And I'd get to spend a couple of hours with you."

  Somehow Alan held no interest for her now—like Ashley Wilkes to Scarlet after Melanie passed away. Or maybe she was numb. On the other hand, she would feel safer, knowing Alan was going to be there. "If you're sure . . ."

  "Absolutely. I'm looking forward to it."

  Friday morning, Mark drove down the driveway to what used to be his home. He planned to pick the girls up from school that afternoon, but Amanda hadn't wanted to send suitcases with them to school, so he was here to get their things. Two weeks ago they'd solved this problem in a simpler way—he'd stayed at the house. But now . . . well, it wasn't going to be his house much longer, and Amanda deserved her privacy.

  He parked and trudged to the door. She opened it before he rang.

  "Hi," she said, barely meeting his eyes. She wore slacks and a sweater that showed off her petite figure. On her face, he saw the grief they'd both suffered these last few days. He hated himself for it.

  "You ready for your trip?"

  "Yes. Here's their stuff." She grabbed two suitcases from the floor behind her and handed them to him.

  He took them, shifting them into one hand. "Thanks."

  "Sure."

  "Did you call Roxie?"

  "Uh-huh. She said she told Baxter I'm skipping the book signing. Said he barely reacted."

  A familiar sensation crept up the back of his neck, like tiny fingers walking toward the top of his head. He set the suitcases on the small porch and turned around, peering into the woods, across the front yard, and toward the street. Nothing seemed out of place. He turned to the door again and looked over Amanda's head into the house.

  "What?" she said.

  "Are you alone?"

  "Of course I'm alone."

  He ignored her irritated tone of voice. "Something's . . ." Mark rubbed the back of his neck. Something didn't feel right. They'd been talking about Roxie and Baxter McIlroy, and . . . what?

  "What's going on?"

  He met her eyes. "Nothing. I just . . ." He looked around again. There was nothing out of place. But the feeling of impending danger was real. It was probably his fear of sending her away alone after what happened in New York. Still . . .

  "You just what?"

  He faced her again. Her eyes were fearful, her gaze scanning the property.

  "Nothing. It's nothing. Just a feeling. Listen, remember what you promised. Frank will walk you in and out of the inn, okay?"

  She turned her attention back to him. "Yeah, I know."

  "And somebody will walk you in and out of the bookstore."

  "I'll be careful."

  The prickling on his neck hadn't stopped, and he looked around again. There was no danger, but . . .

  Amanda crossed her arms. "You're scaring me."

  "Sorry. It's nothing. Take care of yourself and call me if you need me. And call me if anything weird happens, okay?"

  She smirked. "What do you mean, weird?"

  "Unexpected, unusual, anything that seems out of place. You know—weird."

  "Whatever."

  "Make sure you have your pepper spray with you."

  "I do."

  "Do you want to take the gun?"

  She shook her head. "I'm scared of that thing."

  "I'd feel better if—"

  "I don't really care how you feel."

  Right. He nodded, grabbed the suitcases, and turned to the truck. He called over his shoulder, "Have a nice trip." He tossed the suitcases in the small back seat before climbing in, but he had to force himself to head back to the road. Had he left her defenseless or, worse yet, sent her into danger?

  After turning out of the driveway, he grabbed his cell and dialed Chris.

  "I don't have much time," Chris said.

  "Something doesn't feel right."

  "Okay. We're on our way to an interview. Can this wait?"

  "Two minutes. Talk me through this. We know McIlroy knows Sheppard."

  "Right."

  "And Sheppard bailed him out of jail, so they were more than just teacher and student."

  "Right."

  "So he's the connection. And yet . . ." He tried to put his finger on what was bothering him. There was nothing solid to grab onto, more like a cold fog. "What if he isn't the connection?"

  "What are you thinking?"

  "It doesn't make sense. I mean, Amanda doesn't say Sheppard's name or even describe him in the memoir. How did McIlroy know the psychiatrist in the book was his professor from college?"

  "I don't know. Maybe Sheppard told him—"

  "Told his student he'd had an affair with a patient? Why would he do that?"

  Chris paused. Mark sat at a stop light, tapping on his steering wheel, and waited. Finally, Chris said, "Gosh, I don't know. It does sound far-fetched, but he's the only connection we've found."

  "And you checked everybody you could think of?"

  "Yeah. Everyone at the conference, the employees at her publishing house, and Roxie's employees. There was just one person I couldn't get any information on."

  "Who?"

  "You asked me to check out Alan Morris. His name wasn't on the list of conference attendees."

  "It wasn't?" Mark thought back, tried to picture the printout he'd given to Chris. "That's weird."

  "Yeah, I thought so, too, but then we found McIlroy—"

  "So if Morris wasn't on the list, maybe ther
e're other names that were left off of it."

  "Good point. But there's another thing. You said the guy's name is Alan Morris, right? But I haven't been able to turn up anybody with that name at any publishing company, anywhere."

  "Really?" Mark thought back to the conversation he'd had with the man two weeks earlier. It felt like months had passed. He'd definitely said Alan Morris. "Hmm, I know that's what he said."

  "Maybe he's not really an editor at all. Maybe he's an imposter or something."

  "No. Amanda had heard of him before. He's legit."

  "Okay. Why don't you call Amanda and ask her who the guy works for?"

  "Ask my soon-to-be ex about her new boyfriend, so I can investigate him? That'll go over like a lead balloon."

  "Good point."

  The light turned green, and Mark followed the traffic through the intersection and turned onto the street that would lead him back to work. "You know what? I'll ask that lady in New York who sent me the list. I'm sure she'll know. And I'll see if I can find out why we don't have all the names. If I dig up a few more, will you have time to help me?"

  "I'll do what I can, but . . ."

  Mark squeezed the steering wheel tighter. "What?"

  "Do you think maybe you're just confused? You know I trust your instincts, but Jamie told me what happened with that model. And she told me you decided you want the divorce."

  He closed his mouth in a tight line, willing his emotions in check. "She did, did she?"

  "She said you told Amanda to file the papers."

  "I did."

  "So you're giving up?"

  Giving up? Was that what he was doing?

  That morning, he'd been caulking around the interior of a new window when a white sedan pulled up outside the Carlisle house. A young woman carrying a manila envelope headed for the front door. She rang the bell, filling the house with a scratchy, painful sound. As he opened the door, he thought I'll have to replace that doorbell.

  The woman smiled. "Mark Johnson?"

  "Yes."

  She handed him a manila envelope. "You've been served."

  Mark pushed the memory away. "It's in God's hands now. I don't know what else to do."

  "So maybe you're mistaking your instincts for guilt or—"

  "This isn't about my marriage. It's about keeping her alive."

  "If you say so. Let me know if you get more names."

  Mark ended the call. Was Chris right? Maybe his instincts were off. He usually followed them, but pushing Amanda for divorce went against every instinct he had. Maybe he was making a big mistake—about everything.

  Twenty-Three

  When Mark climbed into bed that night, his niggling fear from earlier had, once again, been replaced by peace. Why God would encourage him to agree so easily to a divorce—to even push for it—he had no idea. But God knew what He was doing, and Mark . . . well, he didn't have any better ideas.

  The afternoon and evening festivities improved his mood. After instructing his crew to finish tiling the shower walls before they left, Mark drove across town and collected the girls from school at half past three. He took them back to his apartment and set them in front of the TV for a half an hour while he called the president of the writer's group in New York, asking the woman why Alan Morris's name wasn't on the list. She said she'd look into it and called him back fifteen minutes later.

  "The list I sent you wasn't complete," she said. "It didn't include people who signed up the day of the conference."

  "Okay. So can you send me the names of the walk-ins?"

  "There's just one. Alan Morass."

  "That's it?" So much for having a new list of names to check on. "You're sure?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Can you tell me where Mr. Morris works?"

  "Certainly. He works for Martindale Books here in New York."

  Had Chris checked Martindale? Mark had never heard of them.

  "But it's not Morris," she explained. "It's Morass. M-o-r-a-s-s. Like chaos or quagmire."

  Chaos or quagmire? Conniving, wife-stealing, son of a . . . Mark reined in his temper with a deep breath. "That explains why we can't find him."

  Mark called Chris and updated him on the information. Chris promised he'd look into Alan Morass that evening.

  Mark and his daughters played Candy Land. He loved spending time with Sophie and Madi, but he was ready for their fascination with that game to become a memory. He'd purchased other games, hoping to seduce them away from the mindless race through the Candy Cane forest, but nothing captured their attention like Candy Land.

  He wanted to leave the house by five o'clock. He didn't know what time Annalise returned home from work, since he'd been avoiding his apartment ever since he'd seen her Tuesday night, working long hours at the Carlisle house to keep from running into her. He certainly didn't want his daughters meeting her. Whenever he considered it, he remembered Sophie's question the week before. Did you find a prettier wife, Daddy?

  So they went out for pizza, and then he took them to a movie. It was after nine by the time they got home, and the girls fell into their beds in the spare room and drifted off to sleep.

  Mark's sleep had been remarkably normal the last two nights. He shouldn't have slept a wink, knowing his wife was divorcing him, and whenever he allowed himself to think about it, the emotions would rise. Guilt, anger, sadness, and regret would fill his stomach and constrict his heart, tormenting him. And then he would focus on God, remember His promises, and allow His peace to settle the emotions. God knew what He was doing, and life wasn't about Mark's happiness. He focused on that thought as he climbed into bed a couple of hours after the girls went down, shutting off the light and falling to sleep.

  The phone woke him. He looked at the clock, saw it was almost three in the morning, and snatched the phone off his bureau. "Hello?"

  "Is this Mark Johnson?" said a man's voice.

  His insides tightened into a knot. "Yes."

  "This is Officer Baker of the Norwell P.D. The alarm's going off at your house. Are you out of town?"

  Thank God. "I'm home. At my apartment—the house is my wife's. She's not there."

  "We're outside the house now. I need you to come down and open the door."

  "Okay. Uh . . ." He had the girls. Should he wake them and bring them? Or could he leave them with someone—maybe Chris and Jamie? But their home was miles from here.

  "Sir? Are you there?"

  "Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  Mark hung up, dressed quickly, and stuck the cell in his pocket. Very reluctantly, he decided on his best course of action, and a moment later, found himself knocking softly on Annalise's door.

  She answered wearing a pink tank top, printed pajama pants, and fuzzy pink slippers. "Hey. What's wrong?"

  "Can you come over and stay with my girls? Someone broke into my house, and I have to go check it out."

  She blinked. "Um, sure. Is your wife okay?"

  "She's on a trip."

  "Oh. Okay." Annalise grabbed her keys, locked her door, and followed him across the hall. In his apartment, he pointed to the couch, and she sat.

  He ran to his bedroom, grabbed a pillow and blanket off his bed, and brought them out to her. "Go back to sleep. I'm sure they'll sleep through, but if they wake up, you'll know it." He found a pen and notebook paper on the kitchen table and wrote down his phone number. "Call me if you need me."

  She yawned, half asleep. "Okay. What're their names?"

  "Sophie's the older one. She has dark brown hair. Madi's the blonde. She has asthma, so if she has any trouble breathing, call me right away." He grabbed the inhaler from the cupboard and set it on his countertop. "Give her this. She knows how to do it. If it doesn't help—"

  "I had a roommate with asthma. I know how it works."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  Annalise laid the pillow on the couch and pulled the blanket over her. "Go ahead. I'll be here."

  "Thank you. I owe you one."


  "Forget it. Go."

  He ran out the door, took the steps two at a time, and bolted to his truck. Leaving his daughters with Annalise felt about as natural as sending Amanda out of town alone this weekend.

  He rolled into the driveway and parked behind the two police cars, whose red and blue lights were casting reflections off the windows of his empty home. Four officers climbed from the two cars when he parked. "Mark Johnson?"

  "Yeah."

  "Officer Baker. Unlock the door, and we'll go in and make sure there's nobody in there. Then you can see if anything's missing."

  He unlocked the front door and stood aside to let the officer in. He could have joined them, figuring his Marine training would be as good as or better than their police training. What would have been the point? He wasn't a cop. He wasn't a Marine. He was a glorified handyman. He leaned against the doorjamb and waited for them to come back.

  A few minutes later, Baker stepped onto the porch. "A window's broken in the back of the house. Guy prob'ly took off as soon as the alarm went off. Take a look, tell us if anything's missing."

  Mark stepped inside and looked around. "Bathroom or office?" he asked.

  "Office. There's a bookshelf tipped over under the window. Prob'ly the guy changed his mind and bolted, knocked the thing over climbing in. I bet it was a couple of kids, knew you guys were gone."

  The cop seemed certain this was nothing serious.

  Mark checked the upstairs first. Indeed, everything looked normal, nothing out of place. The living room, kitchen, and downstairs bath also looked untouched. He entered the office and stopped in the doorway. Baker almost rammed into him from behind, but Mark ignored him. He stared at the room. The bookshelf beneath the window was tipped over, and the books that had been lined neatly along the three shelves were now scattered on the carpeted floor. The bookshelf itself had landed at an angle against Amanda's desk. Glass glittered across the carpet like confetti.

  The desk, neatly arranged with her notebook, a pen, and a house phone, looked too empty. The computer was missing. She would have it with her. She never went anywhere without her laptop. Nothing else looked out of place. He dialed her cell.