Finding Amanda Read online

  "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 weeks."

  "That long already? So . . . ?"

  Mark scuffed his work boot against the asphalt. "I don't know. No change."

  "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 much these days. Did you find out anything?"

  "Yup." 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. He just didn't, you know . . ."

  "Smart man. I assume he 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 agree. 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.

  Chris seemed to weigh his words carefully. "I talked to a detective on the BPD, and 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 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 scared to look into him, afraid he might 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 find 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.

  He met his friend's gaze. "Could you do some digging without her finding out? Or Jamie? Not that I want you to hide anything from your wife, but if Amanda finds out I went behind her back . . . Well, I'm trying to save my marriage, and that won't help."

  "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 she afraid of getting sued?"

  "She doesn't mention the guy's name in the memoir, 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. This guy seems 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 hit like a sucker punch to the gut. "Did she say something to Jamie? Is she planning—?"

  "No, no. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Jamie hasn't said anything to me. We don't talk about you two—not that kind of stuff, anyway. 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 just 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 . . . Well, it's not like you don't have options. There are plenty of other women out there."

  Mark met his friend's eyes. "I don't want options. I want my wife."

  Two

  Amanda Johnson massaged her lower back and stared into the glass case, wondering if she should have ordered something to go along with her pumpkin-flavored latte. She was more tired than hungry, but the scones looked delicious. After spending two hours squirming in a chair more suited to a torture chamber than a Manhattan hotel, Amanda figured she deserved a treat. One look at the line forming in the coffee shop, however, and she changed her mind.

  The barista yawned and leaned an elbow on the counter as she dispensed caramel into a tall cup. At this rate, Amanda would be lucky to get her drink before dinnertime.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to a woman she'd met at the conference earlier in the day. The woman held up a copy of Amanda's cookbook and smiled. "Thanks again."

  Amanda's heart fluttered as it did whenever she saw her book, the raised letters of her pen name leaping from the cover. When she'd signed the book earlier, she'd tried to quell the giggle and look professional and detached, as if people asked her for her autograph every day. "Anytime."

  Amanda watched the woman walk away. At least she wasn't the only one skipping the keynote address. She'd seen a group of writers in the lobby bar when she'd come down the escalator, but she had no desire to join them. She'd already attended the seminar on social media and blogging, which made sense. Amanda had been blogging for years, and her following had grown faster than she'd
ever dared hope. Whether the blog fueled her cooking classes or the classes fueled the blog, who knew? She just knew they were both doing very well. And now with a cookbook in print, Amanda had somehow become known as an expert. A reporter from the Herald had described her blog as, "Entertainment tips for the rest of us . . . Martha Stewart meets the Pioneer Woman."

  She shook her head. Accolades aside, being a blogger didn't make her a writer, and frankly, neither did writing a cookbook. How many ways were there to say, "Add a cup of sugar and stir"? Being at this conference, surrounded by real writers, made her feel like barbecue sauce at a French bistro.

  The barista finally started on her latte. Amanda massaged her back again, cursing her afternoon in the stiff chair, and willed the woman to move faster.

  She'd gotten some good ideas in the seminar, like better ways to connect with her audience. The rest of the seminars looked to be about the craft of writing, and Amanda wasn't interested. She'd bled over the pages of her memoir, and she never wanted to write something like that again. Not that it had been hard to get those words on the page, not really. Reliving the past, dredging up the memories—that had been the hard part.

  That, and dealing with Mark. After all her hard work, what did he say? That she shouldn't publish. He was afraid the subject of her memoir—and her nightmares—would discover what she'd done. Or so he said. More likely, he was afraid his mother would find out. The woman already hated her, so what difference would that make?

  And she hadn't seen him in years. Dr. Gabriel Sheppard. She shuddered at his name. Amanda would keep everything under wraps until the book was in print. And it would be in print, too. If no publisher were interested, she'd self-publish and sell it on her blog. Then she'd let the name of her seducer slip, and he'd be ruined.

  Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

  The barista called her name. She snatched the latte and left the coffee shop, entering the hotel's towering lobby. She couldn't go back to her room, not while her roommate nursed a migraine. Torrents of rain drenched the idea of a stroll around Central Park. The lobby would have to do.

  The scent of rain followed soggy guests through the sliding glass doors. The clink of dishes and occasional laughter filtered through the expanse from the bar. The ding of elevators and murmur of travelers almost drowned out the soft music playing in the background.

  She headed for a seating area about thirty feet from the front desk. The chairs were white, contemporary and boxlike, with sides as tall as the backs. Three were pushed together, arm-to-arm, and faced a wide, lightly-stained coffee table. And they were empty. She set her latte on the table and tugged a novel out of her bag, leaving the bag propped against the edge of the chair. Slipping off her shoes, she lifted her stocking-clad feet onto the chair and opened the book, settling into her hiding place.

  She'd finished three chapters when a shadow fell across her novel. Her gaze traveled from a pair of trouser-clad knees, to a leather belt, to a suit jacket and tie, and finally to the face of the man she'd been hiding from for twelve years.

  His lips stretched into a familiar smile. "I thought that was you."

  Everything seemed to stop. Her heart. Her breathing. She scanned the room, searching for help. Rain still fell outside the double doors. Glasses still clinked in the lounge. Travelers still waited beside luggage in the check-in line. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

  He'd found her.

  She swung her feet to the floor and slipped them into her shoes as Gabriel Sheppard moved her latte and sat on the coffee table across from her. His knees spread and almost reached the arms of her chair. His shoulders hid her from passers-by, his head towered over her. He'd trapped her. Her hiding place had become a cage.

  She blinked. "What . . . ? I mean . . . wow, it . . . It's been a long time."

  "Twelve years, two months and"—he looked toward the ceiling before he returned his gaze to her—"sixteen days, if I'm not mistaken."

  "Right." Her voice shook. She cleared her throat. "You always were precise."

  "The last time I saw you, we made plans to see each other during Christmas break. Then you disappeared."

  Amanda turned the corner of the page down to keep her place and closed the book, mostly to give her a moment to collect her thoughts before she faced him again.

  "And if I remember correctly," he said, "we'd planned to go away for a weekend that spring. I expected you to contact me. But you were gone."

  He reached forward. She startled and pushed back against the cushion behind her. His musky cologne assaulted her, flashing a hundred memories. Gabriel grabbed the lanyard hanging around her neck and studied it. "M.L. Johnson. That explains a lot."

  His eyes captured hers. She swallowed and tried a smile. "That's my pen name."

  Looking again at the name tag, he read the line beneath her name. "Cookbooks?"

  "Yes."

  "You're published?"

  "One book."

  He dropped the name tag and glanced at her naked left hand. She followed his gaze, saw the tan line where her ring had been.

  "Was Johnson a married name, Amanda? Are you divorced?"

  She forced a laugh. "I'm married. Not divorced. I left the house late this morning," she lied, "and I forgot to put on my ring."

  He nodded slowly. "I see."

  With a sigh, he gazed at the ceiling. Whenever he was frustrated or angry with her, he looked up, as if for guidance. Funny, because she knew he searched no further than what he considered his own brilliant mind when he needed wisdom. Just his attempt to make her nervous. After all these years, she should be immune to his manipulations, but her hands trembled like crystal in an earthquake.

  He'd aged in the twelve years since she'd seen him. His once dark brown hair was thinner and graying. The wrinkles were deeper around his eyes and mouth. His cheekbones were less pronounced, the skin on his cheeks sagging under the weight of the years. The suit looked familiar, though. Not that it was the same one. Gabriel would never wear a suit for more than a year or two. She pictured the labels she'd seen on his clothes so many times. Brooks Brothers had been his favorite.

  He shifted his gaze and caught her staring.

  "Have I changed that much?"

  He could still read her mind. "No."

  He leaned forward and pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her face to the left and right under his analytical gaze.

  His hand was hot, his grip, tight. She wanted to lean away, but some things hadn't changed in twelve years. She was a coward.

  "I wasn't sure it was really you." He dropped his hand, grabbed the edge of the table beneath him, and leaned forward. "But I always knew fate would bring us back together someday."

  "Fate? This isn't fate. This is . . . What are you doing here, anyway?"

  He sat back, and she inhaled a mouthful of refreshing air.

  "Research. I had a meeting with a professor at Columbia. But now that I see you, I know you're what really brought me."

  Amanda let the comment pass—as well as its implications. "Research for what?"

  "I'm working on a book myself. I doubt it'll be as interesting as your cookbook. I'm writing a textbook for psychiatry students."

  "Oh." A psychiatry textbook, so he could influence the next generation. How . . . discomforting. He looked at her expectantly, so she added, "Interesting."

  He smiled. It didn't disarm her like it used to. She saw him now as a chocolate-covered cockroach, a candy-coated scorpion.

  "I don't see patients anymore. I gave up my practice a few years ago to teach college full-time."

  "I see."

  A quick, humorless chuckle, then his gray eyes darkened. He angled toward her. "So what happened, Amanda?"

  "I . . . I met someone else."

  "So quickly? You loved me in August, and by December, you'd already replaced me?" His gaze turned to her left hand briefly. "Was it him?"

  "No. Just . . ." Beads of sweat broke out on her upper lip. "I just . .
. I decided after I got away from you . . ."

  His right eyebrow rose in an accusing question mark.

  "Not that I had to get away from you. I just mean that once we were apart, and I had some perspective, I realized . . ." She took a deep breath. "I couldn't do it."

  "You couldn't do what?"

  The truth wasn't an option. Amanda swallowed her fear. "I couldn't break up your marriage. You had kids to worry about, and—"

  "So you disappeared? To protect my kids?"

  Now it was her turn to eye his ring finger. The diamond and gold band glittered, just like it always had. "It worked. You're still married."

  "No phone call. No letter. Nothing. You just . . ." He snapped his fingers. "Disappeared. Did you pick your husband because of his last name? Easy to hide behind a name like Johnson."

  A flash of anger. "Right. Because everything I do is about you. How incredibly arrogant—"

  He leaned forward and grabbed the arms of her chair in his huge hands. His face loomed inches from hers. "We were engaged."

  Her answer was just as cold. "You were already married. And I was . . ." A kid. That's what she wanted to say. Eighteen when she'd left him, but only sixteen when the affair had started. What had he expected?

  And why didn't she have the courage to say it aloud?

  He sat back and crossed his arms. She mirrored his posture, staring boldly into his blazing eyes, though her anger dissipated quickly, evaporating in the steam of simmering fear. She looked at his knees, at the crease in his charcoal slacks as they fell over his kneecaps.

  He shifted, leaned forward, and rested his forearms on his thighs, touching his fingertips together between his knees. She studied his manicured fingernails, the dark hair sweeping across the backs of his hands. She stared at the white edges of his shirtsleeves, folded like wings preparing for flight. His onyx cufflinks suspended between his wrists, staring at her like the peering eyes of a bird of prey.

  "I'm sorry." She stared at those onyx eyes. "I should have contacted you. I thought you might try to talk me out of it."

  "I would have. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you."