Finding Amanda Read online

  Finding Amanda

  Robin Patchen

  JDO Publishing

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  Contents

  Also by Robin Patchen

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Convenient Lies, Chapter 1

  Also by Robin Patchen

  About the Author

  To John David.

  Nobody could make me laugh like you.

  I miss your laughter the most.

  Also by Robin Patchen

  Coventry Saga

  Glimmer in the Darkness (Part of the Dangerous Deceptions boxset)

  Nutfield Saga

  Convenient Lies

  Twisted Lies

  Generous Lies

  Innocent Lies

  Beauty in Flight

  Beauty in Hiding

  Beauty in Battle

  Legacy Rejected

  Legacy Restored

  Legacy Reclaimed

  Legacy Redeemed

  Amanda Series

  Chasing Amanda

  Finding Amanda

  Standalone Novellas

  A Package Deal

  One Christmas Eve

  Faith House

  Prologue

  Fifteen years ago

  Dr. Gabriel Sheppard eyed the girl in the doorway. She'd be perfect.

  She paused at the threshold. Most people looked first at the windows, but she turned to his left, toward his massive cherry desk. There was a telephone, a notepad, a pen, and a picture frame that faced away from her, so she couldn't see the images of his wife and children.

  He stood with hands curled over the back of his leather wingback chair while her gaze flicked to the wall of shelves behind him, the reference books and medical journals, then to the child-sized table and chairs, where he often worked with his younger patients, a half-dozen small toys arrayed neatly on the tabletop. The girl continued scanning the room, moving quickly past him.

  Her eyes were like synthetic sapphires. Not rare, but beautiful. They were drawn next to his collections. She blinked, smirked. Tilted her head to the side, then continued her scan of the room.

  Interesting.

  Finally, she focused on the wall of windows on his right, the view of Boston Harbor and, twenty stories below, the boats lined along the piers. Her eyebrows lifted, her supple pink lips parted to reveal braces-straight teeth unstained by a coffee habit.

  She turned to him and smiled. "Pretty view."

  He nodded once. "Thank you." He took two steps toward her and extended his hand. "I'm Dr. Sheppard."

  Her hand was cool, soft, and quickly enveloped in his. "I'm Amanda."

  He indicated the chair. "Have a seat, Amanda." He picked up the file from the round coffee table between the chairs while she did what she was told. A good start.

  He flipped open the manila folder and read the first sheet. Amanda Prince. Fifteen. Her mother had written a short description of Amanda and her family, along with an explanation of the fatal car accident only Amanda had survived, which seemed the catalyst for the problems that landed her here. Aside from the accident, there was the absence of her older brothers—both of whom were off to college this year—and of the father.

  "Well, not absence," the mother had clarified when they'd met just a few minutes earlier. "Her dad's just not around much. Works a lot. Travels a lot. You know how it is."

  He did know. The man didn't have time for his family, probably had a girlfriend on the side.

  Gabriel had counseled many kids whose fathers weren't involved in their lives for one reason or another. Boys often developed anger issues. Girls usually became vulnerable, malleable.

  Although he already knew what the file said, he reread it to give the girl a moment to relax. He glanced at her briefly. Beautiful. How long had it been since he'd had one like her in his office? Too long, but no matter. She was here now.

  He met her eyes and smiled. "Did you leave school early to come see me?"

  She nodded. "Yes." Not yeah, he noted. Nervous.

  Her long, blond hair fell perfectly straight across her forehead. She pushed it behind her right ear with shaking fingers. Her fingernails were painted light pink, which matched the fitted turtleneck she wore beneath the gray V-neck sweater vest and over the black denim skirt.

  His gaze returned to her face. "Do you like school?"

  "I guess." She shrugged. "It's fine."

  "What grade are you in?"

  "Tenth." She crossed her arms and hugged herself.

  He dropped his gaze to the file, but he was distracted as she shifted in her chair, crossed her left knee over her right. Her shiny black boot bounced. Her knee jerked, pale and knobby. He saw the seam where her legs met, the fabric of the skirt drawn tight across her thighs.

  He focused on the paper, cleared his throat. "What do you like about school?"

  She talked about the teachers and the classes. She was a cheerleader. He could picture that. She spoke for almost two full minutes and tried to reveal nothing. It didn't work.

  He tilted his head to the side. "What about friends?"

  She uncrossed her arms, folded her fingers together on her lap, just a few inches above the hem of her skirt. "I have a couple of friends, I guess. The other girls on the squad."

  But the other girls on the squad weren't why they were here. No, Amanda needed to talk about her best friend.

  She looked to her right, toward his collections. First, the ships in bottles that sat on the shelf closer to him. They usually fascinated his male patients, not the girls. And, predictably, Amanda's eyes shifted to his collection of animal figurines. He'd been collecting them since he started his practice a decade earlier. Only the most realistic animals made their way onto his shelf, always on the same scale. Once a patient gave him a Chihuahua that dwarfed his Great Dane figurine. He'd tossed it out the day the patient left for the last time.

  Amanda's eyes rested on one of the animals.

  "You may touch them, if you like."

  She seemed to hesitate, then stood and stepped the few paces to the shelves. He followed, watching her shoulder blades move as her hands skimmed the different figurines, hovering over them, almost close enough to touch, but not quite.

  She stepped to the side. Her hips swayed and shifted beneath her skirt.

  She pulled the lion into her hand, revealing a short, red scar across the knuckle on her thumb. Probably a remnant from the accident.

  "You like it?"

  She nodded. He could smell her shampoo—strawberry. And a floral scent he couldn't place reminded him of the mall. He listened to her breathe. Otherwise, the room was silent. Soundproof.

  "It's beautiful," she said. "They all are."

  "Thank you. Feel free to hold them anytime you wish." He reached out, paused, and then rested his hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch. "Let's sit back down."


  She started to return the lion to the shelf.

  "You can keep it while you're here."

  "Thanks."

  She returned to her chair, crossed her legs, and turned the figurine over in her hands. Her fingers, no longer trembling, stroked the painted mane, the length of the lion's body, as if it were flesh and blood.

  His heart raced. He forced his expression to remain unchanged as he watched.

  One

  Current Day

  Day 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 be 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. And then . . . No, he wouldn't think about that.

  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.

  Wasn't it?

  He grabbed the rest of the calendar and threw it in the rubbish. With a deep breath, 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 into his jeans' pocket, slid his phone into his shirt pocket, 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 began 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 to the house when his phone rang. He braced himself and answered it.

  "It's me," Amanda said. As if he wouldn't recognize her voice.

  "Good morning." His voice sounded unnaturally chipper. He toned it down. "Are you on the road?"

  "Yup. I'm 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."

  "Pfft. Right. Forget it. 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?"

  He bit back the remark 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 didn't speak. The 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."

  "Of course he needs to be stopped. But what if he's already in prison?" Not the strongest argument, but he 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, she couldn't talk on the phone at the same time. Mark rested his head on the steering wheel. "Fine. Whatever."

  "Bye, Mark."

  "Wait!" She didn't hang up—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 sighed and maneuvered back onto the road.

  Ten minutes and half a cup of stale 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 Mark. His striped tie set off the white shirt. Mark raised a brow. "Some tie. 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, and Mark widened his.

  He'd 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, his eyes lingering momentarily 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."