Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A lan hadn't given Amanda any hints about what he wanted to show her, but he promised it wasn't far. The snow swirled around the tires of Alan's car in front of her, lifting gently over her own. But it was picking up, beginning to stick on the little country road they were traveling.

For about the tenth time, she dug in her purse for her phone. She'd ignored it during the book signing, thinking she'd check her messages during a lull in customers. And then they'd left, and she'd forgotten. She knew it had rung a couple of times at the store. So where was it?

She tugged off her leather gloves, dropped them on the seat beside her, and felt around in her purse. Her hand closed around her wallet. She set it on the passenger seat. Then she pulled out her checkbook, a couple of lipsticks, and a pack of gum. The phone had to be in there, but she was afraid to take her eyes off the slippery road. In frustration, she picked up her purse from the bottom and overturned it, spilling the contents on her passenger seat. She glanced at the mess. Her phone was gone.

She couldn't have left it at the bookstore. She'd set it on the table, and the table had been clear when they’d left. So she must have slipped it into her computer bag, which was on the floor behind her seat. She tried to reach back to grab it, but when she did, her tires veered to the right and slid off the edge of the narrow road. She jerked the wheel and steadied the car. It wasn't worth risking her life.

Alan's right turn signal blinked, and he angled onto a snow-covered lane barely wide enough for two cars. She followed, and they made their way up a steep hill on what might've been an old logging trail. He stopped his car at the top, and she parked behind him. How would she ever turn her car around in this narrow space?

She grabbed her computer case, maneuvered it between the two front seats, and set it on her lap. Her phone had to be in there. She was digging through the contents when her passenger door opened. Alan methodically returned the clutter on the seat into her purse before sliding in beside her. He dropped her purse to the floor.

She forced herself to smile. "Sorry. I'm trying to find my phone. What did you want to show me?"

Alan reached across the space, his hands trembling in earnest now. At first, she thought he might be reaching for her, and she winced. Any attraction she'd felt for Alan had melted away in the events of the past week. But his hand closed around the keys dangling from the dash. He turned them, killing the engine, then pulled them from the ignition and pocketed them.

Her heart raced. "What are you doing?"

"We need to have a private conversation. This seemed the best way."

She surveyed the area, the trees looming all around, the thick brush lining the edge of the encroaching wilderness. "Luring me into the woods—that seemed like the best way? "

He shifted in his seat to better face her. "This is going to be hard for you to hear, Amanda."

He folded his hands together. She focused on the ragged edges of his fingernails. The surface of his right thumbnail was rough, peeling, as if he'd scraped it repeatedly. He squeezed his hands together until the color drained from his knuckles. "I haven't been completely honest with you."

She looked into her computer bag again. Something was very wrong. If only she could find her phone, she could call Mark.

No sign of it. She had to get out of there. She inched her left hand toward the door handle.

Alan grabbed her other wrist and held it firmly.

"Let me go." She tried to pull away, but he didn't loosen his grip. "Give me my keys, and let me go."

“You’ll freeze out there.”

She quit trying to get out of his grip. When he was distracted, she’d run. Better to freeze than . . . whatever it was he had planned.

“I just want to talk, okay?” When she nodded, he released her arm, took her computer bag, and lifted it into the backseat. "I have your phone.”

She stared at him, at those deceptive dimples, those lying eyes. "Give it back."

"I promise, I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk. Please trust me."

She looked out the window again, considered going for the door.

"There's nowhere to run. And no reason. I just want to tell you something."

Amanda glared at him.

"When I was a teenager, I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. The pill you saw me take earlier—it's an antipsychotic. It keeps me sane."

What was he saying? He obviously wasn't sane. Nothing about this was sane.

"I know what it's like to lose touch with reality, to hear voices, see things." He rested his hand on her arm. "I know what it's like to remember things that didn't really happen. I know what you're going through."

She shifted away from him. "What are you talking about?"

"Your delusions about your psychiatrist, about what you think he did to you."

She smacked his hand away. "They're not delusions, Alan. They really happened."

"I know, I know they did. In your mind, they did really happen. But Dr. Sheppard would never hurt you."

Dr. Sheppard . Alan said his name with reverence. Amanda turned, reached for the door handle again. A dark shadow filled the window. A torso, a man.

She gasped, managed to lock the door through her haze of terror. She turned back to Alan. "This whole time, you've been lying to me? You acted like you believed me, and the whole time?—"

"I wanted you to trust me. Dr. Sheppard coached me on what to say, on how to make you feel better.”

The air whooshed out of her lungs.

“He said if I told you it wasn't your fault, if I acted like I believed you, that it would comfort you. I really like you, Amanda. All I want is for you to feel better, so we can be together.”

She struggled to draw in a breath, forced herself to exhale. "What have you done?"

"He wants to help. He won't hurt you, I promise. Dr. Sheppard—he saved me. It's only because of him that I've been able to have a normal life, a job, a family. Because of the counseling he gave me, the medications."

Her voice was a whisper. "You don't understand."

"The things you wrote in your memoir—it's a delusion. He would never hurt anyone. He explained that you've been suffering from schizophrenia, like me, for all these years. It's hard, I know, getting past the paranoia long enough to take the drugs. But he's not out to get you, Amanda. He wants to help you, to give you peace, the way he's given me peace."

From outside, Gabriel tried the handle. When he let go, it smacked against the door frame, and she winced. Then he knocked. "Unlock the door," he said, his deep voice carrying easily through the glass. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Alan took her hand. His palm was cold and clammy with sweat. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. She shuddered, feeling like a spider had crept over her skin. "If you don't unlock the door, I will."

She was trapped between a murderer and a madman. She squeezed Alan's hand. "Listen to me. He's done it before. He raped a thirteen-year-old girl, and before the case went to trial, she disappeared. He killed her. He's going to kill me. Please, give me the keys. Please."

Alan smiled sadly. "I helped him with her, like I'm helping him with you. He didn't kill her, he just talked to her, tried to get her to take her medications, to get her to tell the truth. She was so distraught about what she'd done that she ran away."

"Were you there? Or is that what he told you?"

Alan blinked. "Well, I wasn't there, of course. I just delivered her to him. But he wouldn't lie to me."

Amanda angled toward him, holding his eye contact. "Listen to me. He killed her. Murdered her, because she was telling the truth. And that's what he's going to do to me."

Alan looked past her, and she turned to see why .

Sheppard's face filled the window.

She forced down the rising scream and turned back to Alan. "Please. Please give me the keys."

He reached across her for the door.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Just . . . one second."

He paused, sat back.

"You might be right. Maybe I am crazy. But listen, I might be right, too. Did he talk to my husband about this, to my family? What right does he have to kidnap me without my permission? Without my family's consent?"

Alan's head tilted to the side. "I don't?—"

"He has no right to take me against my will, even if I am delusional."

"But it's for your own good."

Amanda needed to sound reasonable and sane. "Maybe you're right. Either way, Mark is worried about me. He has a right to know where I am. If you'll just give me my phone?—"

"No. No. Dr. Sheppard was explicit. I had to take your phone. No calls. It's part of the process."

She resisted the urge to scream at him, to smack him. Instead, she nodded. "That makes sense. So could you call him for me?"

His eyes widened with what looked like fear.

"He'll be so happy to know where I am," she soothed. "I promise, he won't be angry with you. If you just call him and tell him exactly where I am, he'll be thankful?—"

Gabriel pounded on the window. "Open the door, Alan."

Like a trained dog, Alan reached across her and flicked the lock. "Trust me. You'll feel so much better when it's over."

She whispered frantically. "Call him. You have my phone. His number's on there. Please!"

Gabriel yanked the door open and grabbed her left hand. He held it against the handle on her door frame. She tried to pull away, but she was no match for his strength. She saw a flash of metal, felt the icy chill. She looked in time to see him tighten the handcuff on her wrist. He fastened the other cuff to the door.

His gaze shifted to Alan, and hers did too.

"You remember how I had to restrain you when you were first hospitalized?"

Alan's look of shock faded to a resigned frown. "Yes."

"That's all I'm doing—restraining her so we can talk. You understand."

Alan's face relaxed, smiled. "Of course."

"You can go now, Alan. I'll take it from here."

Amanda grabbed Alan's arm. "Don't leave me. He's going to kill me."

Alan smiled kindly, nodded to Gabriel, and opened his car door.

She squeezed the hem of his jacket in her fist.

He turned, gently removed her hand with clammy fingers, and stepped outside the car. He bent down and looked inside. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Please, Alan."

Alan squinted, nodded once, and slammed the door.

Mark looked around the parking lot of the bookstore one last time before giving up and walking to his car, calling Chris on his way. When his friend answered, Mark said, “They left.”

“She’s gone?”

“Tell me. Please, tell me you have an idea where he might have taken her."

Silence filled the space between them before Chris said, "I'm sorry. I have no idea."

Mark raked his fingers through his hair. There was nothing else.

"Maybe I can figure something out," Chris said. Mark heard Chris tapping on a keyboard in the background. "I've been looking into Morass's past."

"And?"

"Not much. He grew up in Massachusetts, went to Boston University, moved to New York. Long career in publishing. Married, divorced, a couple of kids."

"And a psychiatric patient," Mark added.

"According to Baxter." Chris blew out a breath. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's remember that Alan's been alone with Amanda a couple of times, and he hasn't hurt her."

"Not yet. But if he's working with Sheppard . . . What was the point of all of this? If Sheppard wants her dead, why not just . . . ?" Mark's stomach clenched, and he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Finish her off? I don't know. Maybe . . . I bet it's because of the manuscript. It's evidence. They had to?—"

"Of course." Mark covered his mouth with his hand. "Sheppard had to make sure there were no copies of it out there. And Morass—he told her not to publish. And, I'm so stupid. I played right into it. I told her to stop sending out the manuscript, when instead I should have had her send it to everyone. I hoped Sheppard would hear about it and leave her alone. But instead . . ." Nausea rose in his stomach. Mark swallowed it down. "All I did was . . . was give him the go-ahead to kill her."

"You didn't know, Mark. How could you possibly have?—?"

"And then the break-in last night. Obviously whichever one of them broke into her house, he was after her computer or . . ." He thought back to the scene in Amanda's office. He'd assumed the burglar chose the office because of the rear-facing window, but what if he'd chosen it because the office was the room he needed? He stared blankly at the parking lot and pictured the office as he'd seen it the night before. He'd opened the desk drawers. He concentrated, tried to remember. "The hard drive," he muttered. "Whoever broke into her house last night must've stolen her hard drive."

Chris understood immediately. "The only other copy of the manuscript is?—"

"On her laptop, which she'll have with her. Sheppard can destroy it when he kills her, and he'll be home free."

"Except we figured it out."

"Yeah." Mark dropped his head into his hand, covered his face. "We'll have evidence at the murder trial. But Amanda will still be dead."