Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

M ark had chosen the apartment complex because it was the closest one he could find to his house, as far as he could bear to be from his wife and daughters. It wasn't very big, but what it lacked in space, it made up for in dinginess. Didn't matter. He wasn't going to be here long. That's what he told himself every day.

It's too late. Her words rang in his ears.

He tossed the folder Chris had given him onto the kitchen table. He had to focus on keeping Amanda safe. Later he'd figure out how to keep Amanda his .

He'd gotten his furniture at a cheap, second-hand shop, furnishing the entire apartment for less than five hundred dollars. Nothing matched, but who cared? The whole apartment would fit in the living room of his house.

Her house. Whatever.

Knowing he'd need to concentrate, he didn't flip on the TV. Instead he grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge, sat at the dented, scraped kitchen table, and slid open the manila envelope.

He flipped through the computer printouts, looking for something on Gabriel Sheppard, but found nothing. Remembering Chris's request that he call before he got started, he picked up his cell.

"Hey, pro."

"There's nothing on Sheppard in here."

"Yeah, I know. I was hoping to have something for you this morning, but I don't."

"What's wrong? Can't dig up anything on him?"

"Oh, yeah. I've got lots of stuff on him. Did you know he lost his license to practice medicine a few years ago?"

"Why?"

"Not sure yet. I'll get to that. I'm trying to find out more information. Meanwhile, I can tell you he was born in nineteen-sixty, grew up in Haverhill, Mass., which isn't far from Andover, where he lives now. He graduated from the public school in seventy-eight and went on to undergraduate school at UMass, then on to med school at Tufts."

Most of Chris's words had been lost after the year of the man's birth. "He's . . . he's twenty years older than she is? So she was sixteen and he was . . . ?"

"Thirty-six."

"I'm going to kill him."

"I didn't hear that. Anyway, he worked for the state for a few years after he finished his residency, then set up his own practice in Boston, which is what he did until he lost his license."

"What does he do now?"

"He's a professor. And, get this, he writes textbooks. He's published two."

"That's the link. Somewhere his path crossed with Amanda's—publisher, editor, agent—someone tipped him off."

"You may be right. Is your fax machine on?"

Mark checked the copier/scanner/fax, which was sitting on the floor next to the phone jack in the living room. "It is now," he said, pressing the button.

"Okay, I'm faxing the details."

"So why'd he lose his license?"

Chris hesitated. "Well, that's what I'm trying to nail down. I haven't got all the details yet."

"Tell me what you know."

"It looks like he was arrested for statutory rape about five years ago."

Mark braced himself. "Any idea how old the girl was?"

"Thirteen."

"Oh, Lord."

"Yeah, I know. He was never prosecuted. The state dropped the charges."

"Why? Why wouldn't they?—?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm waiting to find out. I've seen similar cases, though. Sometimes the girl refuses to testify."

"Why?"

"She thinks she's in love," Chris said. "It's possible some girls are afraid. I suspect one of those two things is in play here. I have a call in to the detective who handled the case. Maybe he'll be able to shed some light on it. As soon as I hear from him, I'll let you know."

"I don't understand. If he lost his license for it, then why didn't they prosecute him? I mean, obviously there was something there."

"Different burden of proof. You know that."

"Right. Of course.” To convict him, the state would have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt he was guilty. Mark figured the medical board had much broader powers.

The fax machine sprang to life. "It's coming through now," Mark said .

"Good. Compare that to what you have on everyone else. See if you can find a commonality."

Mark kneeled beside his fax machine and looked at the papers, one by one. "Are the names of his books here somewhere?"

"Yeah, second to last page, I think."

"Great. I'll get a copy of those, too. Maybe the publisher or . . . Amanda thanked her agent in the acknowledgements. Maybe he does, too. Maybe that's the link."

"You need anything else?"

"Not that I can think of. Let me know what you hear from the detective."

"Will do."

"Okay. Thanks, Chris. I can't tell you how?—"

"I know. It's the least I can do. Listen, I have a question for you."

Mark straightened the papers against his palm. "Okay, shoot."

"How you holding up?"

Mark dropped the papers, sat on the carpet, and pressed his back against the wall. "I'm hanging in there. By the way, what'd you say to Mandy this morning?"

"Nothing important. You don't look good, man."

"Gee, thanks."

"You look worse than you did Friday."

"Could you sleep if you thought someone was after Jamie?"

A pause. "No, I guess not."

"I can't be there to protect her. And I don't even know . . ." He let his voice trail off.

"How's your relationship with God?"

Mark massaged his temples. How was his relationship with God? He was angry with God. He had known following Christ would cost him, but he had no idea he'd lose his family. He swallowed a surge of emotion. "Shaky."

"Trust Him, Mark. He won't let you down."

Mark nodded but couldn't speak for the lump in his throat.

"I'm praying for you."

"Mm-hmm." He swallowed. "Appreciate that."

He hung up the phone and dropped his head into his hands. Prayer. He should try that. But hadn't his every thought been a plea for his marriage for the last month? Every breath a plea for Amanda's safety since she'd called Friday? He was beginning to wonder if God was listening.

Grabbing the papers, Mark climbed off the floor and made his way back to the kitchen table. He'd figure out the link and maybe, somehow, that information would get him one step closer to protecting Amanda.

Amanda ushered the ladies out the door, happy to be finished with the gourmet dessert class. One woman fancied herself a pastry chef and grilled Amanda with questions while the rest of the guests drank bottles of wine, their voices rising with each pop of the cork.

Amanda usually enjoyed the silence in the house when her girls weren't home. She knew she should miss them, but the rare times she was home alone in the evenings, she relished having the house to herself for a few hours. These days, though, the evenings spent alone were growing more frequent. She yearned for her children. Or maybe she was just scared to be alone.

She turned the deadbolt and set the alarm. There, that was better.

Her cell phone had vibrated in her pocket a couple of times during the evening. She pulled it out. Three missed calls, all Alan. Four text messages from him, too.

"Reading your memoir," the first one read. "Part shocked, part impressed. You're a great writer."

The next one said, "I can't believe this guy."

The third one said, "I've been trying to call. I'm worried. Please let me know you're okay."

The last one said, "If you don't call within an hour, I'm driving up there. Seriously."

Amanda half-smiled and dialed his number.

"Amanda?"

"It's me."

"Where've you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you for hours."

A half a bottle of wine had been left by one of her guests. Amanda poured herself a glass. "I'm fine. I had a class tonight."

"Oh. Of course. I think you even told me that. I forgot."

Ignoring the wreck in her kitchen, she curled up in the corner of her sectional. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, half-laughing.

"I finished your memoir tonight. The emotion in it is so strong, so . . . real. It must be hard to live with the turmoil. I was really worried about you."

"I'm fine. You don't have to worry."

He clicked his tongue. "Look, do friends have the right to offer advice?"

She set her glass on the coffee table and sat up straighter. "I guess."

"The manuscript is amazing. I couldn't put it down. It's . . . compelling. Gripping and emotional. And, really, you're a great writer. But I can't even consider publishing it."

She blinked, shocked first by the compliment, then by the rejection. "Why not?"

"This psychiatrist sounds like a psychopath. I'm sorry, but you'd be crazy to publish it. It's not worth the risk."

"It's my risk to take," she said, anger, fear, and disappointment vying for position.

"Publishing this is inviting him back into your life. And now that you've run into him, he knows your pen name?—"

"You sound like my husband."

"If that's the case, then your husband's right."

Amanda took a sip of her wine, trying to relax her pounding pulse. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was crazy to publish the memoir.

But then she remembered those days, the way Sheppard took advantage of her, told her he loved her, and used her. She was publishing it. He'd asked for it.

Those words rose to the surface. Was she really doing this for revenge, like Mark said? No. She needed to expose him. And after the book was published, she'd go public with his name, and then he'd be stopped.

"Were the flowers from him?"

She blinked. "I'm sorry?" She realized what he’d asked, and her stomach tightened like it did whenever she thought of the yellow roses. "No. We think they were from Sheppard."

"He knows where you live?"

She shrugged as fear bubbled up in her stomach, making it impossible to speak.

"Please tell me you won't publish it."

"I don't know." She hadn't meant to snap at him.

Alan softened his voice. "You're angry with me."

"I'm . . . surprised, that's all."

Amanda changed the subject then, telling him about her night and the high-spirited ladies who'd filled her kitchen. They talked for an hour, during which time Amanda dragged herself off the couch and cleaned the kitchen. Alan, fortunately, didn't bring up the memoir again until they were saying goodbye.

"I'm looking forward to Friday," she said, climbing the stairs to her bedroom.

"Amanda, I'm serious about what I said. Please don't publish it."

She stopped halfway up. He sounded as serious as Mark. Maybe they were both right.

"It was a lot of dang work to just shove in a drawer," she said.

"I'm sure it was. But is it really worth risking your life over?"

She frowned in the darkness. Mark had asked the same thing. "I don't know. I'll think about it. Maybe I should hold off for a while, see if he tries to contact me again."

"Yes. Good idea. Just . . . hold off on it for now."

When she climbed into bed that night, Amanda thought about everything Alan had said. For some reason, though he used the same arguments as Mark, she was more willing to back down when Alan asked her.

The fact was, they were both right. It was stupid to risk her life to publish a memoir. She just wasn't convinced she was in danger, though the men in her life were working very hard to convince her she was.

She turned off the light, silently thanked Mark for the security system, and fell asleep.

Gabriel filled the doorway that separated his office from the waiting room just as he filled Amanda's heart. This was the first time she'd been back since they'd made love, and she repeated her mantra silently in her head.

She mustn't let on to her mother that anything had changed.

With a quick glance at her mom, who'd taken a seat on the sofa and opened a magazine, she walked toward him, feeling a bubble of nervousness in her chest. What would it be like, this counseling session, now that she was sleeping with the counselor?

Inside his familiar office, she sat in the leather chair and waited. He smiled, kissed her, and began to unbutton her shirt. She hadn't expected that. She didn't want it.

"It's okay," he said. "We're just going to talk." He slipped her shirt off her shoulders.

She knew it was wrong, but he convinced her it would be good for them, and she trusted him. He pulled her to her feet, completed the process of removing her clothes, and a moment later she sat, fully exposed, in the chair. He took the chair across from her, comfortable in his suit and tie, and began to question her. They were the same questions he always asked in this room. Was there anything she'd like to talk about? How were her nightmares? How was she doing in school? She had no choice but to answer honestly. It was impossible to lie while sitting naked. She felt as though he could see through her skin, into her heart.

He didn't counsel her today as much as listen to her rambling.

Then his mouth lifted at the corners, his eyes crinkled, and he gave her that special smile she only saw when they were alone together, when he was telling her how much he cared for her. "Do you want to talk about your relationship with your new boyfriend?"

She told him her new boyfriend was wonderful.

The phone rang.

He stood, unzipped his pants, and drew her to her feet. She thought it was wrong, but she allowed it because she loved him and he loved her. If he said it was okay, then it must have been. And it didn't last very long — their time was almost up.

The phone rang again, and she looked at it. A black phone with multiple buttons, all of which were lit up, demanding his attention. It had never rung during their sessions before. In fact, she couldn't remember ever noticing it.

She dressed quickly, kissed him goodbye, and exited his counseling room. Her mom was writing a check, paying for her time with him, and the sight of it started a flow of anxiety and nausea. She looked down, certain she was going to find herself naked, but she was wearing clothes, though not the clothes she came in with earlier. She was wearing the sexy black silk nightie he bought her, staring at the tear down its front.

The phone rang again.

Her mother smiled. "You ready, honey?"

How did her mother not notice the nightie? Why didn't she know what had just happened? Couldn't she smell him on her? Amanda had to get away before her mother realized what she'd done. Her mother thanked Dr. Sheppard. He curled his lips in that detached sort of it-was-lovely-to-see-you-again way. But his eyes were hungry and satisfied, and Amanda knew what he meant. It was lovely to have you again.

The phone rang. She dove out the window, falling from his building, watching the floors pass beside her.

Amanda gasped, fully awake, and sat up in her bed. The phone rang again. She flipped on the light, and reached for it with trembling fingers.

"Hello?" she said.

"Madi's having an asthma attack," Mark said. "We're on our way to the E.R."