"No quick and painless death for you, Amanda."
She clamped her frozen hand over her mouth to silence the scream.
"I don't find much pleasure in murder, Amanda. It's not something I choose to do. But there are times when I don't have any choice."
A snap of a twig, a crunch of snow. He was getting closer.
"This is your fault. You know that, right? It's all your fault."
The footsteps continued for a moment, then stopped.
She heard a chuckle.
A hand clamped down on her ankle and yanked.
Amanda screamed.
Mark heard a scream. Ignoring the pounding of his heart, he turned to his left and ran toward the noise. The sound hadn't been that far away. He tried to move silently through the thick trees. In the fading light, moving fast, it was nearly impossible.
He could shout, get Sheppard's attention, but he didn't want to hurry the man. He wanted Sheppard to think he had all the time in the world.
Mark tried not to imagine what Sheppard might do with that time. He slid between two birch trees and ran faster.
He heard scuffling, Amanda's soft cry, and Sheppard's laugh. Mark forced himself to slow down and approach silently, stowing his flashlight in his pocket, afraid the shaft of light would give him away. The sun hadn't quite set, but the world was colorless, everything cast in shadows of black and gray.
"I told you I'd find you," Sheppard said. Mark couldn't see him, but his voice carried. Loud and angry. And excited.
"Please, Gabriel, please don't."
Mark swallowed and pushed a branch out of the way, sliding through the woods toward his prey.
He heard an unmistakable sound—a slap of skin against skin. A gasp of pain. He wanted to sprint. With superhuman control, he quietly picked his way around bushes and among the trunks of scaly pines and peeling birches.
Another loud thunk—a fist this time.
"Please don't, please . . ."
Mark stopped behind the wide trunk of an oak tree a few feet from a shallow drop-off. His wife lay at the bottom of the incline, Gabriel kneeling over her. Her wrists were clamped above her head in one of Sheppard's huge hands, pinned to the forest floor. Her eyes were wide with fear and pleading.
"I swear I won't tell anybody," she begged. "Please don't."
"Too late," Sheppard said. He lifted his right hand above his head.
Mark saw the glint of a knife's blade poised over his wife's chest.
"Noooo!" He threw himself at Gabriel, grabbing the man's right hand.
They rolled off her, wrestling for control of the knife. Mark used the momentum to continue the roll until he was on top. He pinned the larger man's hands to the ground while Amanda scampered away.
He could just make out Sheppard's wide eyes and gaping mouth as he dropped the knife into the leaves. Fear. That's what he wanted to see. And pain. Though neither would make up for what this monster had done to his wife. Mark raised his right hand and punched Sheppard in the face.
Sheppard lifted his hand, tried to hit Mark back, but Mark batted his hand away like he would an insect.
Sheppard's eyes widened, his mouth opened to scream, but no noise came out.
Mark imagined the innocent teenager Sheppard molested and murdered, and he punched him again. His own marriage had fallen apart because of this man. Mark punched him again. And again.
Sheppard's head rolled over, limp against the moist bracken. His eyes closed.
Mark pulled his fist back, prepared to hit him again. It didn't matter that Sheppard wasn't fighting back. Nobody would know it wasn't self-defense.
A quiet voice spoke. You'll know. Amanda will know. But Mark could convince Amanda he'd had to do it. She'd back him up.
I'll know.
His fist loosened.
He heard slow footsteps behind him. "Don't kill him, Mark." Amanda's voice was soft.
But . . . he really wanted to. He pressed his hand onto Sheppard's chest. "Why not?"
She rested her hand against the back of his head. Her icy fingers stroked his hair. "That's not who you are."
Wasn't it, though? "Are you sure?"
Her fingers moved to his shoulder and squeezed. "I am."
He turned and looked into her eyes. "Then who am I?"
"Come here." She tugged on his left arm, and he stood, stepped over Sheppard, and faced her. She stepped closer to him, rested her hand against his chest. "You're our daughters' daddy, your parents' son. You're my husband . . ." She paused for a rattling breath. "You're my heart, the only man I've ever loved."
Tears filled his eyes. She was here, alive. And in this moment, she loved him again. He drew in a cold breath and let the relief fill him.
Amanda began to tremble. Shock, maybe? Or maybe something else. He could hardly see her in the dark. He took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, then wrapped her in his arms. "You're going to be okay."
"Mark?"
Her voice was weakening. Jesus, I can't lose her now. He picked her up, carried her across the small clearing, and set her down so she could lean against the trunk of a pine tree. He reached for the flashlight, but it was gone. Probably lost in the scuffle. He slid his phone from his pocket and dialed Chris, using the light from its display screen to look her over.
Chris answered on the first ring. "You find her?"
Mark put the phone on speaker, kept looking for bruises or blood. "She's hurt. Sheppard's unconscious. We need an ambulance."
"They're already on the way. I'll tell them to move in."
"Okay. If they follow the road near my truck, they'll come to a sedan. There's a path just north of the sedan—they should be able to follow our tracks. We're about a hundred yard east of the path."
"Got it."
Mark ended the call. "Honey, you still with me?"
"I'm all right."
He didn't see any blood. He pushed the power button on his phone to keep the light on.
"Mark?"
"Where did he hit you? Tell me what hurts." Mark brought the phone close to her face, studied the bruises while she squinted in the bright light. "Here," he said, touching her cheek. "Where else—?"
"Mark, listen to me." She pushed the phone away.
He couldn't see her, could hardly hear her. He leaned in. "What is it?"
"I'm so sorry. I love you. And I want you back. Can you ever forgive me?"
Epilogue
Mark lifted the shovel, took two steps, and dropped the snow into the growing pile. He'd made a nice little sledding hill for his daughters. Not to mention that he'd cleared the driveway and walkway. Now it was time for the front steps.
He lowered the shovel again and pushed it along the bottom step. Aside from the scraping of metal against concrete, the night was silent, muffled by the six inches of snow that had fallen that day. The sky had cleared, and now a quarter-moon shone among the stars and glistened off the sea of white.
A flash of movement inside the house caught his eye as his daughters climbed into chairs at the dining room table. He watched through the window as Amanda helped them set up the new game he'd bought a few days earlier. Sophie spun the spinner first, and they were off.
Amanda stepped in front of the window. She watched the girls play and rubbed her side. The cracked ribs were healing, and she swore they no longer hurt. He suspected she rubbed them not to ease the pain, but to ease the memories.
He resumed his work, digging into the untouched snow on the first step leading to the front door. He lifted the pile and tossed it onto the sledding hill.
The police had located Alan's body where Amanda had said it would be. Then they found the body of Sheppard's other victim, Maryanne. Sheppard had made it easy for them, digging a fresh grave just a few yards from where he'd buried the teen years earlier.
Amanda's grave.
Mark shuddered and thanked God, like he had countless times before. Thirty seconds later, and he would've been too late.
The nightmare
was almost over. There might be a trial, but Mark doubted it. Sheppard would most likely accept a plea deal and hope he lived long enough to get out of prison someday.
Finished with the first step, Mark moved to the second and scooped up a pile of snow, hearing her voice echoing from that night. I love you. Can you ever forgive me?
And then she'd passed out. A trip to the ER was followed by the long drive back to her hotel in the mountains. She'd slept the whole way. He'd called ahead and asked Frank for a first-floor room, knowing two flights of stairs would have been torture with her cracked ribs. Mark carried her from the car to the room, laid her in the king-sized bed, and pulled up a chair to the bedside to keep an eye on her. Half-asleep, high on painkillers, she begged him to hold her.
How could he refuse?
He climbed in beside her and snuggled close, careful not to hurt those ribs. He figured when she regained her sanity, remembered what he'd confessed about Annalise, she'd be furious with him, but what could she do? Divorce him?
In the morning, he fetched coffee and breakfast and insisted she eat. She did, and then she set the tray aside and grabbed his hand.
"I've eaten," she said. "I haven't had a pain pill in four and a half hours. I'm awake and sober, and I want to say something to you."
He perched on the side of the bed and waited for the thank-you and the dismissal.
Now, Mark finished shoveling the porch, tossing the last of the snow onto the sledding hill. It wasn't much, but his daughters would love it. The driveway and walkway were clear, so Amanda could go on her annual day-after-Thanksgiving shopping spree at some insane hour of the morning while he stayed with the girls. They'd plow out a few driveways together—one of the perks of a pickup truck—and then sled and build a snowman.
Mark took off his right glove and scratched beneath his wool cap before returning to work. The hard drive on Amanda's laptop had been ruined by Sheppard's magnet, and he'd managed to wipe her external hard drive as well. But the flash drive was a different story. The police found it in the center console of Sheppard's car, and the files had been intact. Good thing, too, because all the edits Amanda had done on her next cookbook were on there, saving her hours of work. The memoir? It was there, too, but she didn't care. She'd loaded it onto her new computer and then promptly deleted it.
Maybe it would have sold millions. Maybe it would have driven business to her blog and sold cookbooks, but she didn't care. "That thing has done enough damage, don't you think?"
He'd been careful not to agree too vehemently.
Movement grabbed his attention, and he looked up to find Amanda at the kitchen sink, watching him. She lifted a mug in the window, raised her eyebrows in question. He nodded, returned the shovel to the garage, and lowered the door. He stowed his boots in the hallway and headed for the kitchen in stocking feet. Amanda's back was to him while she poured steamy liquid into his World's Greatest Daddy cup. Then she added a dollop of marshmallow cream, his favorite.
"For me?" he said.
She jumped and turned. "You snuck up on me."
He looked down at his socks. "Sorry." She was jumpy, probably would be for a while. He should've been more careful. "I took my boots off, so I wouldn't track water in the house."
She grinned, embarrassed. "No problem." She held out the cup. "Just like you like it."
He took the hot chocolate, swallowed a sip. "Perfect. Thanks."
The kitchen was clean, the Thanksgiving dishes washed and put away. In the dining room, the girls were putting the last of the game back into the box.
He turned back to Amanda. "They're already in pajamas?"
"I gave them their baths." She stepped closer and laid her left hand on his chest. Her wedding ring glittered in the kitchen's overhead lights. "We were just waiting for you to kiss them goodnight."
He lifted his eyebrows. "Are we in a hurry tonight?"
She took his mug and set it on the counter behind her. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her.
He didn't take much convincing. He leaned over to kiss her.
"Ew, gross," Sophie said behind him. "Get a room."
Reluctantly, he moved away from Amanda and faced his daughter. "Where'd you hear that?"
She shrugged. "TV."
Amanda grimaced. "I'll have to monitor her viewing a little closer."
He tightened his grip and whispered in her ear. "From the mouths of babes . . ."
She giggled and called around his shoulder, "Okay, girls. Time for bed."
Mark watched his daughters race for the stairs. Amanda leaned into him and looked up, her eyes wide and twinkling. "You, too, mister. It's been a long day." She wove her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck and lowered her voice. "Meet you in the bedroom in ten minutes?"
He kissed her again, tasted chocolate and peppermint and home. "Make it five."
If you enjoyed Mark and Amanda’s story, you won’t want to miss Convenient Lies, book one in the Nutfield Saga, a romantic suspense series. Turn the page to learn more.
Convenient Lies, Chapter 1
Nutfield Saga, book 1
When Rae learns she married her enemy, she flees to protect her infant and lands in the arms of her first love. When Rae's husband starts killing people to smoke her out, Rae has to make a choice. What, and who, will she have to sacrifice to save her son?
* * *
There were only two people Rachel Adams trusted. One was twelve days old, and the other had mysteriously quit answering her phone. At least Gram could be counted on to stand by her side, assuming Rae could get in touch with her. And Jean-Louis? The baby didn’t know any better.
The betrayers were too many to count. Julien, though. His betrayal was the most recent, and the most brutal.
Rae pretended to sleep as his lips brushed her forehead, leaving behind the scent of his cologne. She didn’t move as she listened to the snap of the lock, kept still while she imagined Julien making his way down the staircase to the first floor and across the black and white tiles in the foyer. The heavy carved door slammed one story below.
Hector would fall in step beside him. Rae had asked Julien once why he didn’t have his guard pick him up in the car outside their building.
“And miss the morning walk through my favorite city? Never.”
She could almost hear his teasing tone. Always with a smile. Always with that look in his eyes that made her feel so loved.
Would he nod to the men he left behind to guard her and Jean-Louis? Or did they stay in the shadows the way they did when she left the building? For her protection, or so he’d said.
Julien would stride down the street past the patisserie, which would just be opening for business, the scent of freshly baked croissants and yeasty loaves wafting around him.
A few minutes ticked by. Surely Julien was in his car, out of the parking garage, and on his way to his early morning meeting by now. And yet she waited. Last week, he’d left for a meeting only to return ten minutes later for one last kiss on his infant son’s forehead. She couldn’t chance that happening again, especially when he’d told her he might not make it home tonight. When fifteen minutes had passed and he hadn’t returned, she flipped back the covers and jumped out of bed.
After a quick shower, she dressed and pulled her hair into a bun. She grabbed the clothes she’d need and shoved them into her suitcase. She spared one fleeting thought for the wardrobe filled with designer clothes back in Tunis, but she shook it off. What use would she have for those things now?
When she finished, she tiptoed into Jean-Louis’s room and grabbed a handful of outfits for him. Not too many. He’d grow out of them in a few weeks, anyway.
The messenger bag she’d use as a carry-on was more suited for her laptop, but Julien had made her leave that back in Tunis when she’d been ordered to bedrest. “No more work for you, young lady.” His charming smile hadn’t set her at ease when he’d taken the laptop and her smart phone and handed them to one of his servant
s, who’d bowed quickly and disappeared. Julien had given her a cheap flip phone for emergencies. “Our child needs all your attention.”
That’s when she’d started to worry. Did he know she’d discovered his secrets?
The messenger bag was already packed with the baby gear she’d need on the long trip. She lifted the interior flap and pulled out a manila envelope. She felt the flash drive she’d slid into it, along with a handful of photocopies. Maybe they’d save her. Maybe not.
She unlocked the ornately carved box on the top of her bureau, removed the jewelry from their protective boxes, and dropped them in a paper bag. Who would store thousands of dollars’ worth of gemstones in a sack from the market? It looked like a pile of trinkets one might buy at a kiosk at the mall.
Finally, Rae dug a box from deep in the closet. She’d owned these items for years, worn them in Africa to fit in where western women often wouldn’t. She hated them. She’d seen what the clothes meant for women all over the world. They would be the perfect disguise. Julien’s guards would never suspect it was she who hid beneath.
She pulled the loose-fitting black abaya over her jeans and T-shirt, then fastened on her baby carrier. She added the wide black scarf around her shoulders and positioned it over the baby’s sling. Yes, that should work as long as Jean-Louis kept quiet.
She pulled the note she’d written from her bedside drawer and reread it, just to be sure. The hospital called. Gram’s taken a turn for the worse, and she’s not expected to pull through. Forgive me, but I have to see her. I’ll call when we change planes this afternoon. Love, Rae.
Love, Rae. Those last two words had been the hardest to write, not because they weren’t true, but because, on some level, they still were.
She left the note on Julien’s bedside table. No going back now.
She grabbed the second note and walked to his office. He kept the door locked, but the old-fashioned locks were easy enough to pick. She’d done it enough, it took less than a minute to get the door open. She opened the file cabinet and slipped the note into a file containing information on his other business, the one he’d kept from her. When Julien realized Rae wasn’t where she said she’d be, he’d check his files. Then he would know. Either he would leave her alone because she could expose him, or he would hunt her down. She hoped he would choose the first. She glanced at the photograph of Julien and Jean-Louis on the desk, the one she’d snapped a week earlier. The love that shone in her husband’s gaze was unmistakable. Tears stung her eyes. At least she knew that wasn’t a lie. Maybe Julien loved his son enough to let him go.
Finding Amanda Page 28