Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Current Day

D ay thirty-four.

Could that be right? Mark Johnson tugged the calendar off the nail and flipped back to September. Not that he hadn’t been keeping a running count, but still . . . Could it really have been almost five weeks?

The coffee maker gurgled and spit the last of the coffee through the filter while Mark counted. With gut-wrenching clarity, he realized it was no longer a one-month separation. They were sliding into month two, which could easily translate into three, and then four.

He didn’t want to think about where this might end.

Amanda’s words slammed into him again. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it anymore.”

What had gone wrong? Hadn’t they been happy?

He ripped the month of September from the stupid calendar. He hated the thing anyway—a remnant from the apartment’s last tenant. Why hadn’t he tossed it before this? Oh yeah, this was only temporary. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

He grabbed the rest of the calendar and threw it in the rubbish. He turned to pour himself a cup of coffee, only then noticing the color of the liquid. He could see right through it. Looked like weak iced tea.

He yanked the plug from the wall, grabbed his keys and cell phone, and headed out. In the hallway outside his dingy two-bedroom apartment, he turned to lock his door, almost gagging at the stink of cat urine.

The door across from his was slightly ajar. That apartment had been empty for two weeks. Nobody should be in there now.

He crossed the hall, drawn by a chemical scent stronger than the cat odor. What did meth labs smell like? He hoped he wasn’t about to find out.

He shoved his keys and phone into his pockets and pushed the door open with his foot, keeping his hands ready to defend himself. But all that greeted him were trademark overalls sagging below the scrawny behind of the landlady, who had most of her head inside the oven.

Maybe she hadn’t heard him. He tried to sneak away.

No luck. She backed out and turned around, black grime smudged across her cheek and a wrinkly smile lighting her face. “Oh, Mr. Mark. You scared me.” Her words dripped with her heavy Cambodian accent. “What you need?”

“Nothing. Sorry to bother you. I saw the door open and?—”

She waved away his concern with a rubber-gloved hand. “Oh, you no bother. I cleaning oven. Maybe I rent to pretty girl? Maybe someone you like?”

“Oh, well . . .” Mark cleared his throat. “I’m still married, so?—“

“Married? How you married and living here alone? No, you almost divorced. But I find a pretty girl for you.”

Mark ignored the rush of adrenaline prompted by the D-word. He backed into the hallway. “Okay, then. I’ll just be going. Sorry to bother you.”

He took the steps two at a time and rushed out the door into the parking lot. Cool, moist air filled his nostrils, the sweet smell of autumn. He shook off the cat pee and oven-cleaning fumes—and the notion of replacing Amanda.

The parking lot seemed in order. The old lady from the corner apartment had parked her twentieth-century green Lincoln in the middle of two spaces. Typical. The rusted red SUV that belonged to the single mother in the basement apartment was parked near the dumpster. The grayish sedan with the busted rear bumper and smashed tail light sat just a few inches from his own truck. He figured he’d find a fresh dent on the passenger door from the kid hitting the truck when he’d climbed out of the car. Mark sighed. That was the least of his problems.

He slid into his pickup and shifted into drive. After a quick stop at the corner gas station, whose coffee was only slightly better than the brew sitting on the counter in his apartment, he headed for his latest work site.

Keep busy. That was his new motto. Obsessing over his separation didn’t help—at least it hadn’t yet. And meanwhile, he had a house to renovate, employees to manage, a business to run.

He was halfway there when his phone rang. He braced himself and answered.

“It’s me,” Amanda said.

“Good morning.” He sounded unnaturally chipper. He toned it down. “Are you on the road?”

“Already stuck in traffic. Listen, I forgot to remind you to give Sophie her medicine. It’s the pink stuff in the fridge.”

“How much?”

“Two teaspoons, twice a day.”

“Will do.”

“Do you have any questions about the girls this weekend? They don’t have anything on the schedule, so at least you won’t have to do much running around.”

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Don’t forget Madi’s inhaler. She needs it?—”

“I know the drill, Amanda. They’re my daughters. I can handle them for three days.”

She sighed. “Okay then, I’ll let you go?—”

“No. I mean . . .” Mark pulled the truck over onto the side of the rural street. “Have you given any more thought to holding off on the memoir?” He tried to sound calm. “It’s not too late. You haven’t actually met with a publisher yet, right?”

“I’m doing this.” Her voice had that snappy tone he particularly hated. “I don’t understand why you’re so against it.”

“Because it could put you in danger. At least let me do some digging before you rush headlong into publishing something that could ruin a man’s life.”

“Oh, so now you’re worried about ruining him?”

Ruining him? Mark wanted to do more than that. “I’m worried about him hurting you. Again.”

“Sure you are.” The words were marinated with sarcasm. “I don’t want you investigating him. The last thing I want is to be on his radar. Not yet, anyway.”

“How would me looking into him put you on his radar?”

“They have that software now that can tell you who’s searching for you. What if he has it?”

Mark bit back the retort but felt justified in his eye roll. “Fine. Let’s have Chris look him up. Surely the FBI can investigate a man without being discovered.”

Amanda’s long pause gave him hope, right up until she said, “That’s not necessary. The FBI can’t do what I can. He needs to be stopped.”

“Obviously. But what if he’s already in prison?” Not the strongest argument, but Mark needed something. “I mean, why go through with it if he is?”

“If he’s already in prison, then he can’t hurt me, right?”

“Well, yeah, but then, why do it? I mean, if he’s already been discovered?”

Amanda sighed. “I’m not discussing this with you. I know you want me to pretend like none of it ever happened. You’ve made your feelings very clear. But I’m publishing the memoir. I have to go.”

Sure she did. Because sitting in stop-and-go traffic was so taxing that she couldn’t talk on the phone at the same time. Mark rested his head on the steering wheel. “Fine.”

“Bye, Mark.”

“Wait.” She didn’t hang up, which he decided to take as a good sign. “I love you.”

A pause. “Right. Okay then. Bye.”

Mark slipped the phone into his shirt pocket and tried to pretend it was no big deal she hadn’t said it back. Not today. Not in at least thirty-four days. Did love really slip away that easily? He maneuvered back onto the road.

Ten minutes and half a cup of bitter gas-station coffee later, he turned into the driveway of his latest project—an eighteenth-century home that would have been better off without the seventies-era updates of avocado appliances, orange-and-gold linoleum, and cheap carpet stapled over hardwood floors. The new owners planned to fully remodel the old place. That should keep him busy.

He parked the truck and stepped out, reaching back in for his coffee before slamming the door. He took a sip, in no hurry to start another work day. At least it was Friday, and he had a weekend with the girls to look forward to, the first since he and Amanda split.

He checked his watch, a G-Shock Amanda had given him on their first anniversary to replace the Timex he’d broken in Afghanistan. The sound of tires on the asphalt startled him. It was too soon for his crew to arrive, and the guys weren’t known for being early. But the dark sedan that parked in front of the house didn’t belong to any of his workers.

The man’s gun bulged under his dark suit jacket as he approached. His striped tie set off the white shirt. Mark raised a brow. “Bet that tie was in style when you bought it. How’d you find me?”

“Would you believe I installed a GPS tracker under your hood? I keep up with your every movement, thanks to this.” Retired Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Sapp tapped the smart phone holstered to his waistband.

Mark smirked. “Sure you do.”

Chris cracked a smile.

Mark had teased Chris endlessly when he’d been promoted, certain his friend had worked so hard to achieve the rank of lieutenant colonel just so he wouldn’t have to retire and be referred to as Major Sapp for the rest of his life.

Chris glanced at the house, lingering on the recently-delivered lumber piled in front of the garage. “I saw your truck turn down this road on my way to work. Thought I’d stop by and say hi.”

“I knew I should’ve taken the back way. Aren’t you going to be late?”

“The Bureau will survive without me for another half hour.”

“Must be nice. If I’m not here, my guys will putter around, accomplish nothing, and still expect to be paid.” Mark tried to ignore his friend’s scrutiny as Chris leaned against the truck and frowned.

“No offense, but you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“A week? Try almost five. ”

His friend flinched. “Already? Any updates?”

Mark scuffed his work boot against the asphalt. “Nope.”

“Amanda’s determined to do it?”

Mark nodded, drained the last sip of his coffee, and set the empty cup on the hood.

“And you still don’t know what’s going on?”

“She doesn’t talk to me anymore. Did you find out anything?”

Chris cleared his throat, and Mark braced himself. “She was over the age of consent in Massa?—”

“She was fifteen!” Mark’s raised voice drove Chris’s eyebrows into full alert. Mark lowered his voice. “He was her shrink.”

“There’s no law against that. And you said she was sixteen the first time they?—”

“Barely. And he started seducing her long before she turned sixteen.”

“Probably knew the law.”

“It’s a ridiculous law. The idea that it’s legal for a grown man to seduce a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“I wish I had better news for you.”

Mark and Chris had discussed this ad nauseum. Mark had always assumed the age of consent was eighteen, but since Amanda had told him about her past, he’d discovered that in many states, it was as low as sixteen. Apparently, Massachusetts was one of those states.

“I talked to a detective on the BPD.” Chris seemed to weigh his words carefully. “He said the other law I told you about—that if the girl’s under eighteen and a virgin?—”

“Which she was.”

“That’s too hard to prove. And it was so long ago.”

Mark dropped his head into his hands, rubbed his temples, and tried to push away the rising despair. “So she has no legal recourse.” Just like she’d told him. “There’s nothing she can do.”

“I’m sorry, pro.” Chris hadn’t used Mark’s nickname from the Marines in a long time. If the nickname—short for prophet —had been accurate, maybe Mark would have seen some of this coming.

Chris continued. “But if you’ll give me the psychiatrist’s name, maybe I can find out what he’s up to.”

“Amanda and I talked for a few minutes this morning.”

“That’s good, right? Talking?”

“She only called because I’m keeping the girls while she’s in New York, and she had some instructions for me. But I asked her if she’d reconsider publishing this thing. She won’t budge. Yet she’s afraid to look into him, afraid he’ll find out.”

“But if she publishes the memoir?—”

“I know. The whole thing’s driving me crazy. She swears he won’t hurt her, but at the same time, she’s scared he’s going to come after her. It doesn’t make any sense.”

With the tension between him and Amanda these days, going against her wishes by asking Chris to investigate the psychiatrist could well be the final nail in his marriage’s coffin. But Mark needed all the information he could get to keep her safe. He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the ground. There really was no choice. He’d rather have her safe and alive, even if she hated him.

“Could you do some digging without her finding out?" Mark added, "Or Jamie? Not that I want you to hide anything from your wife, but if Amanda learns I went behind her back . . . That won’t help me save my marriage.”

“Email me everything you know about him, and I’ll see what I can learn.”

“Thanks.” If anyone could dig up information, it was Chris. “ You know, the whole point of her thing this weekend is to find somebody who’ll publish the stupid memoir.”

“Jamie told me. Isn’t Amanda afraid of getting sued?”

“She doesn’t mention the guy’s name, but she does plan to let it slip after the book comes out.”

Chris cocked his head to the side. “Let it slip to whom?”

Mark shrugged. “She hasn’t let me in on that part of the plan yet. In any event, she doesn’t think he’d dare sue her.”

“So does that mean she has some kind of evidence against him?”

“Not really, but she was with him for a long time. She knows intimate stuff about him. Stuff that would prove their relationship was more than psychiatrist-patient.”

“What do you think? Aren’t you concerned?”

“About us getting sued? That’s the least of my worries. From what she’s told me, the way Sheppard manipulated her, he sounds like a sociopath. I’m worried he’s going to hurt her, try to silence her.”

Mark stared at treetops on the far edge of the yard. The green had all but disappeared, and a thousand variations of gold and red and orange fluttered in the breeze. Would he be home by the time the last one fell to the ground, or trapped in his crappy apartment? Amanda had disregarded his fears about the psychiatrist, just like she’d disregarded his pleas to skip the writing conference this weekend. She didn’t trust his judgment anymore. She didn’t trust him.

He felt Chris’s stare and met it.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but have you thought about what you’re going to do if she files for divorce?”

“She’s not gonna . . . Why would you ask that?” Realization was a sucker punch to the gut. “Did she say something to Jamie? Is she planning?—?”

“No, no. Sorry. Jamie hasn’t said anything to me. We don’t talk about you two—especially now that you’re separated. I’m just wondering if you’ve thought about it.”

“We’re going to get back together.” Mark tried to convince his pounding heart. “It’s just a matter of time. I have to . . . to figure out what’s going on. Why she kicked me out. And then . . .” And then what? He’d fix it? How could he fix it if he didn’t know what was broken? And how could he know if she refused to tell him?

Mark slid his gaze to the neighbor’s house, to the gutter that had dislodged from the roof. Rather than meet the corner seamlessly, it hung about a foot below the roof’s edge, dumping rainfall onto what had once been a flower garden but was now a tangle of weeds.

Mark had been irritated by that gutter since he’d started this job. Why didn’t they have someone repair it? A ladder and a few screws, and it would be good as new.

That . . . that was a mess he could fix.

“Remember,” Chris said, “Jamie and I are praying for both of you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“If Amanda completely loses her mind and files for divorce, it won’t be the end of the world. You’ve got the girls. You’ve got a successful business. And there are plenty of other women out there. It’s not like you don’t have options.”

Mark met his friend’s eyes. “I don’t want options. I want my life back. I want my wife.”