Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

S mash, rip, destroy.

Just don't think.

Mark had been dying to tear out this bathroom since they'd begun the renovation project. At first the owners had wanted to restore the old tile and fixtures. But why? Even if they could find the white, octagonal tiles to replace the ones that had broken over the years, they certainly wouldn't be able to match the patina created by decades of dirt and grime. He'd talked them out of it.

He smashed the sledgehammer onto the floor, creating an explosion of dust and shrapnel. Death by bullet. Death by knife. Death by tile. However it came, he longed for it. Anything sounded better than facing the consequences of his own choices.

After Mark had watched Amanda disappear into her house that morning, he'd called Chris. The conversation was short—he told him to have Jamie call Amanda. She needed someone to talk to, and he wanted it to be anyone but Alan. He didn't tell Chris about Annalise. He couldn't bear to talk about it.

He smashed the sledgehammer again, dislodging another few inches of the flooring, and tried to pray. But his prayers didn't go further than Dear God , nor, he felt, did they rise above the ceiling. He'd created this mess. How could he ask God to help him out of it?

There was something wrong with that sentiment, though at the moment he had no idea what. He'd lost his family, and all he had left was a business he hated and a bunch of employees who counted on him to pay their bills.

He remembered that night at his apartment—had it only been a week before?—when Sophie asked him why he'd moved out. Don't you love us anymore, Daddy?

He'd tried to assure his daughters he loved them. But it wasn't enough. His love wasn't enough to fix the mess he'd made of his life, and his wife and daughters would pay the price.

Suddenly he was twelve years old again. His mother had picked up a pizza and ordered him to take it upstairs and stay there for the duration of the Christmas party. Adults only—that's what she'd told him. But the smells wafting up from the kitchen seduced him. Hearing fading voices after hours of partying, Mark decided the guests were finally going home. His mother had warned him not to show his face until everyone was gone, but with his growling stomach, he couldn't hold off another minute.

He crept down the stairs and into the abandoned kitchen filled with tempting treats. Dips and crackers and cubes of cheese and Christmas cookies and fudge. He piled a paper plate high and listened to the muted conversation in the family room.

He peeked. Just one couple remained, his father's rotund boss and his squat wife. His parents stood at the door with them. His father made a joke and the adults laughed, but something was wrong. His mother's laugh sounded angry. He'd heard that before. Good thing he wasn't the one she was angry with. Whoever it was would get it for sure .

Halfway to the stairs, he heard the door close, followed by his mother's shrill, angry voice. "Who were you with?"

"Calm down, Pat."

"You said you were working last weekend. You lied to me."

"Shh. Do you want Mark to hear? And I was working. I just wasn't at the office. I had some work to get done, and I?—"

"Liar!"

Even Mark could hear the lie in his father's voice. He wanted to run, to not hear any more, but fear and morbid curiosity anchored him in place. Who had his father been with?

They argued. Accusations flew from his mother's mouth, denials from his father's. And then he heard it. An admission. A woman's name. His mother began to cry.

Mark was furious with his father and at the same time, knowing his mother, who could blame him?

He hated them both. And he hated himself for feeling that way. And he hated himself for knowing, for listening when he should have stayed upstairs. Then he would never have known his father was a cheater.

Mark smashed the sledgehammer against the tile. Now he'd done the same thing, only Amanda never deserved it.

His daughters certainly didn't deserve it.

Demolishing the floor, sending shards in every direction, Mark tried to work out some of his guilt and anger. Some days were for building. Some days were for smashing.

He finished the tile, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up. One of his men came in with a dustpan, broom and metal trash can and began to sweep the mess while Mark straddled the edge of the old peach-colored tub. It couldn't possibly be pulled out in one piece. It would need to be destroyed.

Today, he was the man for the job. He'd destroyed the tile. He'd destroyed his family. In light of that, the ugly tub seemed insignificant as he lifted his right arm, gripped the sledgehammer in a white-knuckled fist, and landed the first blow.

The edge exploded like a mortar blast.

His employee dove out of there like a frightened Afghani villager.

Mark lifted his arm and pounded the porcelain again.

Johnnie, his oldest, apparently bravest, employee found him amidst the rubble of the former bathroom and insisted he eat. Mark glared at him, but the man held out an Italian grinder and a tall Coke and didn't back down. Irritated, Mark grabbed both, realized his stomach was growling, and tore into the meal. One bite, two bites, the whole thing, followed by a long gulp of the soda. He'd reached for his sledgehammer again when his phone rang.

He saw Chris's number on the caller ID. He pressed talk and stomped out of the bathroom, through the house, and into the front yard. A cold blast of air hit him, stinging his bare, sweat-covered arms. "Hey."

"How're you holding up?"

"Not great. Did Amanda tell you?"

"She's not answering her phone."

Mark squeezed the phone. "I called you hours ago. She needs you guys. Please, have Jamie check on her."

In his calm-down, everything's-going-to-be-okay FBI voice, Chris said, "Jamie's going over there this afternoon. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Mark tried to steady his racing pulse with a deep breath, the cold air prickling his lungs. None of this was Chris's or Jamie's fault. The blame lay with him. "I don't want to talk about it. Is that why you called?"

"No. I know you're having a rough day. Maybe this'll cheer you up. I think I found the connection to Sheppard."

“Who is it?” It seemed insignificant in light of what had happened that morning, but Mark needed some good news. "Tell me."

"I checked the names from the conference, as well as the employees at Sheppard's publisher. Those names turned up nothing, so I dug a little deeper. You know Roxanne Richardson?"

"Amanda's agent."

"She hired a guy about six weeks ago named Baxter McIlroy. I read his bio on the website, and get this: he graduated from the same university where Sheppard teaches."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So I did some checking, and it turns out, not only did McIlroy have Sheppard for a couple of classes, he was a teacher's assistant for him while he worked on his Master's."

“Hold on.” Mark ran to his truck and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. Leaning against the driver's seat and using the open door to block the wind, he wrote the name Baxter McIlroy on the top of the page. "So you're saying?—"

"Just listen. I called the psychology department at the university and talked to a very chatty older woman. She remembered McIlroy, and when I told her I was with the FBI, she said, get this, 'Is he in trouble again? I thought that whole mess was just a big misunderstanding.' Well, of course I asked her what the 'whole mess' was. Turns out a fellow student accused him of date-rape. I did a little more checking, and the woman dropped the charges, but not until she'd filed a report and had the guy arrested. And guess who bailed him out of jail?"

"Not Sheppard?"

"One and the same."

"So you're saying . . . what? They're friends? Or maybe this guy McIlroy owes Sheppard?"

"No idea, but there's a connection. Since McIlroy has been working for Richardson, he could easily have gotten Amanda's schedule from Roxie. And I bet he's the one who told Sheppard about the memoir."

"It makes sense. Roxie knew about it before anybody else. Amanda hasn't told that many people."

"Yeah. So I think you should call Amanda and have her call Rox?—"

"I'll call her myself."

"Don't you think you should tell Amanda?"

Mark stared at the bare, gray bark of the trees in the front yard. If only they could have a rational conversation about anything. "Let me find out what I can from Roxie. I'll call you back."

"But what about?—?"

"Thanks, Chris. I owe you one." Mark hung up the phone. He'd explain later.

Pacing in front of his truck, Mark dialed Amanda's agent, thankful he had her phone number. He'd programmed it in his phone years ago when they'd been negotiating her book deal. Amanda had trusted him then. Not that he'd deserved it.

A woman answered. "Richardson and Associates. How may I direct your call?"

Mark asked for Roxanne, gave his name, and waited. A moment later, she came on the line, her cigarette-damaged voice gravelly in the phone. "Mark, did something happen?" she asked. "Is Amanda okay?"

"She's fine."

"Phew. You scared me. What's up?"

"First of all, I assume you're up to speed on what happened last weekend with Sheppard."

There was a pause. "She told me, but . . . Mark, I've always liked you, so don't take this the wrong way, but I know you and Amanda are separated. I can't give you any information?—"

"I don't need information. I need to tell you something. You've got a man working for you." Mark glanced at the pad of paper in his hand. "His name is Baxter McIlroy."

Her voice was guarded when she responded. "What about him?"

"He has a connection to Amanda's psychiatrist, Gabriel Sheppard."

"No. Not Baxter."

"He worked as a TA for the guy in college."

"That doesn't mean anything, though. I mean, lots of people?—"

"Roxie, we've been looking for a connection, and now we've found one."

"But Baxter wouldn't harm a fly. You don't know him. He's a really sweet, gentle guy."

"Oh yeah?" Mark paused. He had to keep the sneer out of his voice. This wasn't Roxie's fault. "Did he tell you he was accused of rape?"

"I don't believe it."

"It's true. We have to assume he's the connection between them. Did he know Amanda would be at the conference in New York?"

"Um . . ."

Mark doodled on his notepad while he waited. He wrote Sheppard across the top of the page, opposite Baxter's name, and drew a line between them.

Finally Roxie continued. "Maybe. I mean, he's sort of my apprentice, so he sits in on a lot of my conversations, and I talked to Amanda about it. It's possible he knew."

Mark wrote probably knew about NY .

"Did he know about the memoir?"

"Oh, yeah. In fact . . . I'm sorry. I mean, I didn't know . . . He read it. I'm trying to teach him how to evaluate a manuscript, so we talked about where we could shop it. If I'd had any idea?— "

"It's not your fault," Mark said. "Can you tell me when that was?”

"Well, let's see, Amanda sent it to me around the first of September, so it would have been back then."

"So before New York."

"Definitely."

Mark wrote knew about memoir 9/1 on his sheet. The connection seemed strong enough, but Amanda had been careful to keep Sheppard's name out of the memoir. How would McIlroy have known the psychologist in the book was his former professor?

Mark tapped his paper and considered the mystery. "Okay, so here's the million dollar question: Does he know Amanda's decided not to publish it?"

"Yes, he does. In fact, when we were at the house last week?—"

"At whose house?" he asked, gripping the paper in his fist.

"Um, Baxter and I stopped by your house last week."

"What day was that?"

"Friday. We were on our way to a conference in Falmouth. We were only there a few minutes."

"And McIlroy was there the whole time?"

"He was in the bathroom."

Listening. He'd been listening and gathering information. Or searching the downstairs. In her office maybe . . . Mark tapped his pencil on his pad of paper again. He wrote on his notes, at house Friday.

"Maybe . . . maybe he left the box," Mark muttered.

"What box?"

Mark told Roxie about the box he'd found on Amanda's front porch Saturday morning. "I've been picturing Sheppard on our doorstep, but maybe it was McIlroy."

"He was with me in Falmouth. "

"All night?"

"Well, not all night. But we were together for dinner."

"Did you see him between dinner and breakfast?"

"There was a meeting that ended about nine. I didn't see him after that."

"Plenty of time to drive back to Norwell and leave the box for Amanda. I'm not saying he did it, I'm saying it's a possibility. On the drive to Falmouth, did you talk about Amanda or the memoir or anything? Did he ask questions about her?"

"Nope. Never."

"Did he seem surprised or worried or anything when you mentioned Gabriel Sheppard?"

"I didn't mention his name, Mark, because I didn't know it. Remember, Amanda doesn't use the name in the manuscript."

"Right. Okay." Mark studied the notes he'd made. On paper, this guy looked like the connection between his wife and that madman Sheppard, but there was something missing. Could it be a coincidence that he worked for Roxie, or had he gone to work for her to spy on Amanda? And if so, then how did Sheppard find out that M.L. Johnson was the girl named Amanda Prince he'd had an affair with over a decade earlier? And why would McIlroy know about the affair? Why would a professor share that with his student?

It was weak, and yet, this was the only connection they'd made to Sheppard. And if he was the link, then McIlroy would have told Sheppard Amanda wasn't going to publish the manuscript, which meant that maybe, just maybe, Sheppard would leave her alone.

Mark felt the slightest loosening of tension in his chest. Amanda would divorce him, but if she was safe, he might survive it.

"Okay, one more question. "

"Why am I not having this conversation with Amanda?" Roxie asked.

"It's a long story. Don't worry, I'll tell her about it. And you can, too. I'm not trying to keep anything from her. Does McIlroy know about Amanda's plans to go out of town this weekend?"

"I doubt it. Where's she going?"

"She's teaching at a hotel in the mountains. And she has a book signing in Concord."

"That's right," Roxie said. "Honestly, I'd forgotten about that. We booked the signing a long time ago. I'm sure I haven't mentioned it to Baxter."

"But would he have access to your files?"

"It doesn't matter, because he could've found out about the book signing on her website. And the teaching thing—I don't keep track of that stuff, so it wouldn't be in my files. I don't even know where she's going to be."

Mark wrote check website on his sheet of paper.

"Where is her book signing publicized?"

"On her website, probably on fliers at the bookstore itself. I mean, if that guy—Sheppard, right?—if he wanted to find her, all he has to do is check her website."

"Right." Mark paced back to the open door of his truck and tossed the notebook on the seat. He raked his free hand through his hair and pictured Sheppard reading Amanda's blog, possibly contacting her through it, maybe pretending to be someone else.

Roxie continued. "But the guy knows where she lives, right? So why would he bother to go to New Hampshire?"

"Why did he go to New York? Maybe to make sure I wasn't with her. Maybe to catch her off-guard. I don't know."

"All right. I'll talk to Baxter?—"

"No, don't tell him we talked. If he is Sheppard's link, then we might be able to use that connection to feed him information. I don't want Sheppard to know we've figured him out."

Roxie's voice rose. "So I'm supposed to let this guy keep working for me, even though he's probably a . . . a sleaze bag using me to get to Amanda?"

"We don't know that yet. This is speculation. Please, act normal until we have more information."

She sighed. "Yeah, okay. I'll try."

"I didn't tell Amanda I was calling you, so she might be surprised when you talk to her. Tell her whatever you want. Like I said, I'm not trying to keep anything from her."

"Okay. Listen, Mark, keep her safe, okay?"

"That's what I'm trying to do."

Mark finished the phone call. His fingers were numb, his bare arms frozen in the cold wind, but he hadn't noticed until that moment.

In the shock of Annalise's sudden appearance and the crumbling of his marriage, he'd forgotten about Amanda's scheduled trip until the moment he'd asked Roxie about it. Obviously she wouldn't want him to go with her now, which meant she'd be alone, unprotected. Maybe she'd be safe at the inn, but at the book signing in Concord, she would be vulnerable. How could Mark protect her if she refused to speak to him?

Amanda had stood in the entryway after Mark dropped her off, too shocked to move. How dare Mark go crazy with jealousy because she'd invited Alan over for dinner when he'd slept with his ex-girlfriend?

She pounded into the kitchen, glared at the mess from breakfast, and set to work cleaning it. While she was unloading the dishwasher, a plate slipped from her hand and smashed on the tile floor, scattering along the baseboards. Fingers shaking, she grabbed her short-handled broom, fell to her hands and knees, and swept the shards into the dustbin.

Stupid plate. Stupid dishwasher. Stupid shaking fingers. Angry tears landed on the back of her hand, and she wiped them on her shirt, crawling on the floor to get every last shard.

She finished with the mess, then put each plate carefully away in the cupboard. She turned back to the dishwasher and tried to lift the silverware basket out. It held fast, stuck somehow, so she pulled harder. When it dislodged, the basket lifted with such force, silverware flew all over her floor, skidding across the tile. Amanda let out a stream of obscenities that rivaled her earlier display on the beach. She picked up the silverware and tossed each piece in the sink with a clatter.

She couldn't do this right now. She couldn't think. She had to move. She headed for the front door, yanked it open, and stalked outside. She pounded up her driveway toward the main road. When she reached it, she turned around and walked back, then repeated the circuit.

It had been years since Mark slept with Annalise. For their entire marriage and longer, he'd been lying to her about his ex-girlfriend. After everything they'd been through together, he'd never told her the truth. Never even hinted at it!

She kicked a pinecone out of her path. Instead of sailing into the woods like she'd hoped, it skidded on the pavement and rolled to the edge of the driveway. Amanda stopped, approached the offensive item, and kicked it again.

And then the jerk had the nerve to accuse her of being unforgiving! He'd actually compared her to his mother, said she was going to turn out like her—a bitter old shrew. Well, he hadn't met bitter yet.

She was walking toward the road when a car turned into her driveway, startling her. She froze, watched it stop, back out, and drive back onto the road going in the opposite direction. Probably someone missed a turn on her winding street, but the event jolted her out of her anger long enough to remember she wasn't supposed to be outside by herself. Well, if Sheppard got to her now, Mark would never forgive himself.

Would she really put herself in harm's way just to hurt him? She stopped short. As much as she'd love to get back at Mark for what he'd done, even that wouldn't be worth enduring Gabriel Sheppard.

She ran back to the house and locked the door behind her.

Her anger began to dissipate. She had to find something to do. No way could she work on her book. She considered cooking, but she'd already made a mess of the kitchen. She filled her coffee mug with the cold remains of the breakfast pot and popped it in the microwave.

Numbness replaced her anger. She welcomed it, fearing what hid behind it.

Warm coffee in hand, Amanda settled on the couch and turned on the TV. She burrowed beneath a blanket. When Mark lived there, whenever she turned on the TV, she found it set on ESPN. In the last two years, Mark had watched more TV than he ever had before. She'd learned to drown it out, pounding away on her keyboard or hiding in the kitchen. He'd drowned her out by turning up the volume.

She flipped through the channels. She hardly ever watched TV, and never during the day. She found daytime talk shows, news, and endless decorating and home shows. Mark hated the fixer-upper shows. Apparently, he got enough of that at work.

Finally, she settled on a news program. Two men and a woman were debating—something about the economy. The tax rate. They were shouting at each other, but Amanda couldn't follow their arguments. How could people be arguing about anything as mundane as taxes when the world had come crashing down ?

She flipped the channel, looking for something more engaging. A rerun of a doctor's show filled with conflict and anger and accusations. She flipped again and again, but nothing drew her in. Everything reminded her of Mark. He permeated her thoughts until his face was on the head of every man on TV. She hated him. Oh, how she hated him.

She turned off the TV and headed for the stairs, feeling her way to her bedroom through a haze of tears.

She fell onto Mark's side of the bed, wishing he were there. And wishing he were dead. If he were dead, grieving him would make sense. As it was, she would still have to look at the face of the man who'd lied to her. She'd have to treat him like he still existed for the sake of her daughters, when she now knew the man she had fallen in love with had never really existed.

Of course he wasn't perfect—she knew that. After nine years of marriage, she thought she knew all his flaws. But she'd always trusted Mark Truman Johnson. Truth—truth was his middle name.

Oh, he'd gotten the name from his mother—Truman was her maiden name. And Pat the dragon was all about truth. She wielded it like a weapon, unsheathing it at the slightest provocation. Sometimes with no provocation at all, Pat would use the truth to keep the people she claimed to love tiptoeing on the shards of their shame.

But Mark? Her Mark had held truth like treasures, never weapons. Her Mark.

Amanda pulled the covers over her head and gave in to sobs.

Two years earlier, when she confessed her relationship with her psychiatrist, if Mark had turned away from her in disgust, she would have been hurt, but she wouldn't have been surprised. He was so perfect, and she so flawed. How could she have blamed him? But he didn't reject her. Instead he'd claimed only to be angry with Gabriel. But now . . . Could she believe that now?

Could she believe anything he'd ever said to her?

She'd always thought of Mark as the honest one. Oh, she wasn't a liar, but she didn't stand on truth like he did. She'd always pictured him like that—like a man whose foundation was built on truth. Almost as if his height came from the truth he stood on. And—she was barely able to face it—she knew she'd ordered her life on Mark's truth. She hadn't had her own foundation to stand on, so she'd nudged herself onto his. Mark was strong. He could support them both. It was why she'd been so confused by his decision to go to church, to rely on some big, invisible God when he was so strong by himself. He'd carried them both for their entire marriage.

And it was all a lie.

Like living through an earthquake, her world was crumbling beneath her feet, and she knew she would be swallowed up in the void.

Because if Mark couldn't be trusted, then the foundation of her life was gone.

Mark was hauling out the last of the demolished bathroom when his phone rang. He saw the familiar number, but he couldn't place it. He tossed the heavy bag into the Dumpster and answered it.

"Mr. Johnson? It's Nancy at the school. Your wife didn't pick up the girls, and she's not answering her phone."

"I'm on my way." Running to his truck, he yelled to one of his employees that he'd be back. In the cab, he jammed his foot on the gas, dialing the phone at the same time. Amanda didn't answer, so he tried her best friend .

"Jamie, it's Mark. Have you talked to Amanda?"

"I'm outside your house right now. Her car's in the driveway, but she isn't answering the door. Is something wrong?"

"The school just called. She didn't pick up the girls. You have to get in there."

"I don't have a key."

Mark turned toward the school, cutting off a car in the process. He spoke louder than the blaring horn behind him. "Go into the backyard. There's a hide-a-key."

Mark waited while she did what he asked.

"Okay, where is it?"

"On the porch, there are three pots on the far side. You see them?"

"Uh-huh."

"Underneath the largest one."

"Okay, hold on." He waited while she looked, hearing the screech of clay against wood. "I don't see it."

"It might be between the pot and the tray."

"Okay." He heard a grunt and the sound of rocks scraping together. "Yeah, there it is. I'll let myself in and call you if there's a problem."

"Can you keep the line open, please? I need to know she's okay."

Jamie panted into the phone, probably running back to the front door. "Okay. I'm going in now."

The door creaked open. He waited for the sound of the alarm. Instead, he heard a scream.