Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E arly morning light streamed through the living room window as Mark collapsed on the faded plaid couch, Bible in hand. Yawning, he opened it to the Psalms. He'd been studying the book of Daniel the last couple of weeks, but he wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything as deep as that after just two hours of sleep. The words of the Psalmist usually brought him peace, but this morning the peace felt shallow, the Colorado River of peace running through the Grand Canyon of despair. He closed his Bible after a few minutes, slid to his knees on the old, dingy carpet, and prayed.

Did his prayers even penetrate the ceiling?

He showered and dressed, tugging on a T-shirt, one of the three flannel shirts he'd brought with him from his house a month before, a pair of jeans, and his work boots. It would be a long day, more so because he was exhausted from the night before and because he had to catch up on the work he'd missed during his day off. His crew had worked, of course, but they never managed to accomplish as much as he did.

In the spare bedroom, he found Madi's pink suitcase and Sophie's purple one. He located their things—toothbrushes, hair brushes, stuffed animals, and clothes—and shoved them in the bags, hoping he got the right items in the right bags. He remembered the first time he'd taken a trip with Amanda and the mountain of luggage she'd brought for the weekend. Apparently, she'd passed down the over-packing gene.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. At least he couldn't see through it this morning. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't make it like Amanda. He couldn't do anything like Amanda.

As he left his apartment, two small suitcases in one hand, insulated mug in the other, Mark remembered his comments the night before—how he'd told Amanda he could take care of himself. It was true. He hadn't starved yet. His clothes were relatively wrinkle-free. His apartment was as clean as he could get it—though not clean enough for his wife, apparently. But oh, how he needed her.

Down the flights of stairs, he pushed open the building's outside door, automatically scanning the parking lot. Everything seemed in its place this morning. His elderly neighbor's green Lincoln was gone, but she'd told him in passing she'd be visiting her kids this week. The rest of the cars were accounted for.

The skills he'd learned in the Marines weren't necessary these days, though he'd been glad for the training last night as he'd searched the house. He'd half-hoped to find someone in there. His life was out-of-control, and Mark needed to pound something. A prowler would have been just the ticket.

When he reached his truck, his landlady rushed around the corner from the rental office in the adjoining building. "Mr. Mark! I did it!"

He wasn't in the mood. Forcing a smile, he turned to face her. She wore a big grin and her trademark overalls.

"Did what? "

"I found you beautiful lady for the apartment! Ooh, you wait. You like her."

He yanked his car door open. "I told you, I'm not interested."

Her shoulders slumped, and her smile faded.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . I do appreciate it, and I'm sure she's very pretty."

The landlady nodded solemnly and walked away, muttering. "What kind of crazy woman kick out man like that?"

He turned his truck toward Amanda's house, wondering if he should have his landlady talk to his wife. Amanda wouldn't be impressed.

At the hospital the night before, and back at the house, things had been strained and tense between them. How many times could he tell her he loved her, only to have her reject him? How many times would he climb out of his fear, shove his pride aside, and lay himself bare for her, only to have her slap him down? Oh, Father , he prayed, but it stopped there. He'd begged God so many times to reunite them, to change Amanda's heart, to let him go home. Was God listening?

He'd seen something in her eyes the night before, first when he slid past her to return his gun to the truck. For just a moment, she looked at him like she had when they first met. He'd seen love, maybe even longing. And later, when he was about to leave, he could swear she'd wanted him to kiss her. But then her face had darkened, and she'd backed away.

She was fighting her feelings for him, but why? Was being married to him so awful she'd rather be lonely, separated from him, when she still loved him? It didn't make sense, and in his groggy state of mind, he couldn't figure it out. Memories twirled around in his brain, coming to the forefront one at a time, then falling away, only to be replaced by another, either near or distant, memories of times when Amanda wanted him.

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 into his eyes and causing them to water. 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 of her irises, and she took his breath away.

"Good morning," she said. "Thanks for not ringing."

He tried to calm his suddenly racing heart, hoping his pain wasn't displayed on his face again this morning. Her pity the night before still stung.

"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."

Surprise showed in her expression. "Why?"

He laid his hand over hers on the cold granite, gently squeezing her fingers in his fist. "He was arrested for statutory rape."

She gasped, the blood draining from her face. "No, no, no. 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." Anger flashed 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 angled out of his reach. 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 expression 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 tucked his hands beneath his opposite 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. "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. "So 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 . . . 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 focused on him again, sighing. "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."

"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. "Oh, sweetheart, how could you think that of me?"

She jumped out of her seat and rounded the counter into the kitchen, where she dumped 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."

"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."

The color drained 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 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."

"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. "Goodbye, Mark."

He watched her for a moment before turning, defeated, to the door.