Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

W hen Mark climbed into bed that night, his niggling fear from earlier had, once again, been replaced by peace. Why God would encourage him to agree so easily to a divorce—to even push for it—he had no idea. But God knew what He was doing, and Mark . . . well, he didn't have any better ideas.

The afternoon and evening festivities improved his mood. After instructing his crew to finish tiling the shower walls before they left, Mark drove across town and collected the girls from school at half past three. He took them back to his apartment and set them in front of the TV for half an hour while he called the president of the writer's group in New York, asking the woman why Alan Morris's name wasn't on the list. She said she'd look into it and called him back fifteen minutes later.

"The list I sent you wasn't complete," she said. "It didn't include people who signed up the day of the conference."

"Okay. So can you send me the names of the walk-ins?"

"There's just one. Alan Morass."

"That's it?" So much for having a new list of names to check on. "You're sure? "

"Absolutely."

"Can you tell me where Mr. Morris works?"

"Certainly. He works for Martindale Books here in New York."

Had Chris checked Martindale? Mark had never heard of them.

"But it's not Morris," she explained. "It's Morass. M-o-r-a-s-s. Like chaos or quagmire."

Chaos or quagmire? Conniving, wife-stealing, son of a . . . Mark reined in his temper. "That explains why we can't find him."

Mark called Chris and updated him on the information. Chris promised he'd look into Alan Morass that evening.

Mark and his daughters played Candy Land. He loved spending time with Sophie and Madi, but he was ready for their fascination with that game to become a memory. He'd purchased other games, hoping to seduce them away from the mindless race through the Candy Cane forest, but nothing captured their attention like Candy Land.

He wanted to leave the house by five o'clock. He didn't know what time Annalise returned home from work, since he'd been avoiding his apartment ever since he'd seen her Tuesday night, working long hours at the Carlisle house to keep from running into her. He certainly didn't want his daughters meeting her. Whenever he considered it, he remembered Sophie's question the week before. Did you find a prettier wife, Daddy?

So they went out for pizza, and then he took them to a movie. It was after nine by the time they got home, and the girls fell into their beds in the spare room and drifted off to sleep.

Mark's sleep had been remarkably normal the last two nights. He shouldn't have slept a wink, knowing his wife was divorcing him, and whenever he allowed himself to think about it, the emotions would rise. Guilt, anger, sadness, and regret would fill his stomach and constrict his heart, tormenting him. And then he would focus on God, remember His promises, and allow His peace to settle the emotions. God knew what He was doing, and life wasn't about Mark's happiness. He focused on that thought as he climbed into bed a couple of hours after the girls went down, shutting off the light and falling to sleep.

The phone woke him. He looked at the clock, saw it was almost three in the morning, and snatched the phone off his bureau. "Hello?"

"Is this Mark Johnson?" said a man's voice.

His insides tightened into a knot. "Yes."

"This is Officer Baker of the Norwell P.D. The alarm's going off at your house. Are you out of town?"

Thank God. "I'm home. At my apartment—the house is my wife's. She's not there."

"We're outside the house now. I need you to come down and open the door."

"Okay. Uh . . ." He had the girls. Should he wake them and bring them? Or could he leave them with someone—maybe Chris and Jamie? But their home was miles from here.

"Sir? Are you there?"

"Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Mark hung up, dressed quickly, and stuck the cell in his pocket. Very reluctantly, he decided on his best course of action, and a moment later, found himself knocking softly on Annalise's door.

She answered wearing a pink tank top, printed pajama pants, and fuzzy pink slippers. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Can you come over and stay with my girls? Someone broke into my house, and I have to go check it out."

She blinked. "Um, sure. Is your wife okay? "

"She's on a trip."

"Oh. Okay." Annalise grabbed her keys, locked her door, and followed him across the hall. In his apartment, he pointed to the couch, and she sat.

He ran to his bedroom, grabbed a pillow and blanket off his bed, and brought them out to her. "Go back to sleep. I'm sure they'll sleep through, but if they wake up, you'll know it." He found a pen and notebook paper on the kitchen table and wrote down his phone number. "Call me if you need me."

She yawned, half asleep. "Okay. What're their names?"

"Sophie's the older one. She has dark brown hair. Madi's the blonde. She has asthma, so if she has any trouble breathing, call me right away." He grabbed the inhaler from the cupboard and set it on his countertop. "Give her this. She knows how to do it. If it doesn't help?—"

"I had a roommate with asthma. I know how it works."

"Okay. Thanks."

Annalise laid the pillow on the couch and pulled the blanket over her. "Go ahead. I'll be here."

"Thank you. I owe you one."

"Forget it. Go."

He ran out the door, took the steps two at a time, and bolted to his truck. Leaving his daughters with Annalise felt about as natural as sending Amanda out of town alone this weekend.

He rolled into the driveway and parked behind the two police cars, whose red and blue lights were casting reflections off the windows of his empty home. Four officers climbed from the two cars when he parked. "Mark Johnson?"

"Yeah."

"Officer Baker. Unlock the door, and we'll go in and make sure there's nobody in there. Then you can see if anything's missing. "

He unlocked the front door and stood aside to let the officer in. He could have joined them, figuring his Marine training would be as good as or better than their police training. What would have been the point? He wasn't a cop. He wasn't a Marine. He was a glorified handyman. He leaned against the doorjamb and waited for them to come back.

A few minutes later, Baker stepped onto the porch. "A window's broken in the back of the house. Guy prob'ly took off as soon as the alarm went off. Take a look, tell us if anything's missing."

Mark stepped inside and looked around. "Bathroom or office?" he asked.

"Office. There's a bookshelf tipped over under the window. Prob'ly the guy changed his mind and bolted, knocked the thing over climbing in. I bet it was a couple of kids, knew you guys were gone."

The cop seemed certain this was nothing serious.

Mark checked the upstairs first. Indeed, everything looked normal, nothing out of place. The living room, kitchen, and downstairs bath also looked untouched. He entered the office and stopped in the doorway. Baker almost rammed into him from behind, but Mark ignored him. He stared at the room. The bookshelf beneath the window was tipped over, and the books that had been lined neatly along the three shelves were now scattered on the carpeted floor. The bookshelf itself had landed at an angle against Amanda's desk. Glass glittered across the carpet like confetti.

The desk, neatly arranged with her notebook, a pen, and a house phone, looked too empty. The computer was missing. She would have it with her. She never went anywhere without her laptop. Nothing else looked out of place. He dialed her cell.

The phone rang three times before she answered it, her voice hoarse but alarmed. "Mark? What's wrong? Is it Madi? "

"Madi's fine," he said gently. "The house was broken into."

She cleared her throat. "What?"

"The police called. The alarm was going off."

"Are you there now?"

"Yes. Somebody broke the window in the office and knocked over your bookshelf, but . . . Do you have your laptop with you?"

"Yeah. Of course."

Mark looked around. "I don't know this room very well. It seems fine." He studied the desk again, the bookshelves behind it. Nothing looked touched. Nothing was overturned. The furniture seemed to be in the right place. "Well, if you have your computer, then I guess . . . The police officer thinks somebody broke the window to unlock the sash but when it lifted, it set the alarm off. Whether he came in and then bolted back out or just . . ."

Mark scanned the room and spotted a piece of glass behind Amanda's desk, at least three feet from the rest of the broken window. He knelt beside it, and from his position near the floor, looked toward the window. With the desk in the way, the glass couldn't have fallen here. "The intruder came in," he said. "He tracked a piece of glass on his shoe and dropped it behind your desk."

"Okay. So . . . ?"

"I don't know. The house looks fine. Is there anything in particular you want me to check? I mean, I checked your jewelry chest. It's there, untouched. The TVs and electronics are where they should be. I guess this cop's right. Whoever broke in was spooked by the alarm and took off."

He heard her sigh. "Okay. Thanks. Should I come home, or?—?"

"No. I'll take care of this."

"The girls must be scared. Can I talk to them? "

He hadn't seen that coming. "They're sleeping. I'll have them call you tomorrow."

"What do you mean, they're sleeping?"

"Um, I left them at my apartment."

"Alone! What are you thinking?"

"They're not alone. I asked Annalise to come over and stay with them. They won't even know I'm gone."

He waited through a long silence for her accusation.

“Annalise, huh?” Her tone was cold and impersonal. “That didn't take you very long."

"I just knocked on her door and asked her to come over while I was gone so I wouldn't have to wake them."

"Right."

"I don't have to explain myself to you, Amanda. You're divorcing me, remember? So I guess you're going to have to get used to it."

"You and Annalise? I guess so."

"Whatever. Good night." He hung up before she could respond.

When Mark woke up the next morning, the first thing he saw was one bright blue eye staring at him from mere centimeters away.

Madi jumped on top of him, and Sophie jumped on her sister and screamed. "He's awake. He's awake."

He rewarded his daughters by tickling them until they begged for mercy, only stopping when the neighbor in the next apartment pounded on the wall. No surprise there—it was barely seven o'clock.

He settled them down. After bowls of cereal, they played hide-and-seek until they ran out of places to hide. It didn't take long. Then he agreed to play Candy Land with them again. They were seated at the table, slogging their way over Gum Drop Mountain, when the phone rang.

"Hey, Chris. What's up?"

"You awake?"

He looked at the clock. It was almost ten-thirty. "No, I'm sound asleep, and this is a dream."

A half-hearted chuckle. "Can I stop by?"

"Sure. What time?"

"I'm in your parking lot right now."

Two minutes later Chris walked into the apartment carrying two Dunkin' Donuts coffees and a large box.

"Donuts!" Sophie yelled.

"Can we have one, Daddy? Please?" Madi asked.

Two sets of big, round, pleading eyes batted their lashes at him. Madi's lips puffed out in a perfect pout. His girls were so adorable, he was going to have to lock them up when they turned thirteen and keep them hidden until they were, oh, twenty. Maybe thirty. "One donut each," he said.

After setting the coffees and donuts on the table, Chris waited near the door, arms crossed, and seemed to hardly notice the girls. Sophie and Madi took their time picking out just the right donut. "Thank you, Uncle Chris," Sophie said. Madi echoed her big sister.

Mark watched Chris, anxiety burning his stomach. "Why don't you girls go watch cartoons?"

"Yay!" Madi said, and the two of them barreled into the living room, forgetting the game.

Chris barely smiled at them.

A prickling on the back of his neck told Mark he wasn't going to like whatever Chris was about to tell him. "What's wrong?"

"Let's sit down. "

Mark lifted the game board and placed it on the counter. The sound of cartoons filled the space, but Mark didn't move to turn the volume down. He didn't think he wanted his girls to hear whatever Chris had to say.

"I didn't have time to pick up my messages until about nine o'clock last night. I got a call from the detective who arrested Sheppard. Detective Diaz. Remember I called him a couple of weeks ago?"

Mark nodded.

"He's been on leave. His wife had a baby. Anyway, he just got back yesterday. I left him a message to call me back ASAP. He did about an hour ago."

"Okay."

Chris took a sip of his coffee and set it on the table. "They dropped the statutory rape charges because their star witness, the victim, disappeared."

Mark swallowed the reaction that tried to escape. “What do you mean, she disappeared?"

"Diaz told me the prosecutor offered Sheppard a pretty good deal—such a good deal Diaz was furious. But Sheppard refused. He was sure he would win at a trial—that's what he told the prosecutor, I guess. And then the trial was put-off and put-off, so it was more than a year later before it was scheduled to start. Sheppard had already lost his medical license, and he was working at a community college at that point. Anyway, it was a couple of weeks before Christmas. The trial was supposed to start the second week of January. And the girl was walking home from school after a meeting of some sort—student council or something. She walked home every night, according to this detective. It was about five o'clock, dark outside of course, but she walked with her friend. Her friend lived just a couple of blocks away."

"What town? "

"Everett. I don't know if you've been there, but it's right outside of Boston, still pretty urban."

"Okay. Go on."

"So the friend went home, and this girl only had two blocks to go. But she never made it home."

Mark's heart hammered so hard, he was sure the girls would hear it over their cartoons.

"They never found her. Never found a trace of her or her body anywhere."

"Are you saying you think Sheppard killed her?"

"The thing is, he has a rock-solid alibi. He was Christmas shopping. He has receipts to prove it. But even then, Diaz was sure he was lying—maybe gave his credit card to someone else. So they looked at the surveillance tapes from the mall, and he's there, in the tapes, at the same time the girl was snatched."

"But obviously someone close to him did it."

"That's what Diaz thought, too. But the wife was at their daughter's dance class in Andover—witnesses saw her there the whole time. Sheppard's son was seventeen and had a driver's license and a car, but he was playing in a basketball game in Tewksbury at the time. Hundreds of witnesses. Diaz checked on Sheppard's former receptionist, an unlikely partner in crime, but he'd suspected that Sheppard and the woman had more to their relationship than boss and employee. But she had a new job by then, and she was at work. The detective hit a dead end."

"But obviously Sheppard did it somehow. He paid someone or something. Somebody helped him."

"I agree. Diaz agrees, but there's no evidence. No witnesses, no body. They never charged him, and they had no choice but to drop the charges against him."

Mark massaged his temples. Sheppard was a murderer. If he didn't kill the girl himself, he had someone else do it. He'd been willing to kill to stay out of prison. But would he be willing to kill now, to protect his reputation?

"There's more," Chris said.

Mark buried his rising fear. "Okay."

"We were near the university yesterday, and we had a few minutes' downtime before meeting with a witness, so I stopped by the psychology department and chatted with the office manager. She's the same one who told me about Baxter McIlroy, and she seemed happy to talk. She told me Sheppard isn't tenured yet. He was up for it a few years ago, but there were some rumors about him and a couple of his female TA's and even a couple of students and some suspicious after-hours meetings. This lady didn't believe it—seems to think Sheppard's a saint. But the rumors kept him from receiving tenure. Well, he's up for it again next year."

Mark rubbed his temples. "He has to keep his reputation squeaky clean."

"Yup. And having a book out detailing an affair with a teenaged patient might keep him from getting his tenure, even if it doesn't name him. Rumors were enough last time, so?—"

"He's already killed once," Mark whispered, almost afraid to say the words. "If he was willing to kill an innocent child to protect himself, he'd be more than willing to kill a grown woman."

"Yeah."

Commercials blared in his ears, grating on Mark's nerves. He stood, started for the TV to turn it down, and stopped. He looked back at Chris, who was staring at his coffee, then at the girls. He had to get out of there. He had to find Amanda and protect her. He had to hunt down Gabriel Sheppard and kill him before he could hurt his wife.

His phone rang.

He grabbed it, hoping it was Amanda and disappointed to see a number he didn't recognize. He considered not answering it, but what if Amanda needed him? What if she was in trouble and had borrowed someone's phone?

"Hello?"

"Mark? It's Roxie Richardson. We have to talk about Baxter. He's not the connection to Amanda."