Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  Tears filled her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mark. I'm so sorry. Will you ever forgive me?"

  "I forgave you a long time ago, Mandy. This isn't about you. It's about what I did."

  What I did? His words fell like a bomb. She remembered how he'd come home that morning, disheveled and guilty. She'd assumed he was sorry he'd made his mother worry. But maybe . . .

  "I ran into Annalise that night."

  Her hands flew up and hid her face. "No, no, no. Don't tell me. Please don't tell me."

  "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was drunk, and she was—"

  "You slept with her?" Amanda's voice was raw, rough and frightened.

  "It didn't mean anything. It was just that one time. I didn't see her again. I didn't call her. I never wanted anyone but you. Please—"

  Amanda pushed the door open, jumped out of the car, and ran.

  Mark slipped out of the driver's side and followed, keeping pace about twenty yards behind. He'd expected her to run away from him when he told her Annalise had moved in across the hall, but she hadn't even been upset. In fact, there was a moment when he'd thought she might ask him to move back home. But he couldn't let her say the words, not until she heard the whole ugly truth.

  And now she had, and she would never forgive him. At least he knew he'd have a few more minutes with her when he drove her home. It had probably been wrong to bring her here, knowing she'd want nothing to do with him after he told her. But Mark had more to say, and this was the only way he could guarantee she'd listen. Besides, for a few minutes on their ride out here, when she'd held his hand, told him she loved him, he could almost pretend they were happy. Those few precious moments were probably the last ones he'd have with his wife.

  For the thousandth time since Annalise had left the night before, he tried to imagine how it would feel to know Amanda had been with another man. He remembered his own insane jealousy a few days earlier when he'd thought Alan had kissed her. And that was nothing compared to what he'd done. Yes, he'd spent the night trying to find justification for his choices. They weren't married yet—could he escape on that technicality? And he'd been suffering from PTSD. But he'd slept with Annalise because he was angry at everyone, and . . . well, she was so tempting.

  Amanda tripped on the sidewalk, stumbled, and almost fell. Her hands kept rising to her face, wiping her eyes, or so he assumed. This because of one stupid, selfish night. He'd slept with his ex-girlfriend, a woman so beautiful, she made millions of dollars just to smile. He'd betrayed his one true love for an hour he barely remembered.

  He hated himself for what he'd done to Amanda, to their marriage, and to his daughters. He didn't deserve them, he knew that. He intended to fight for them anyway. Amanda loved him, so they could get through this, if only she'd be willing to forgive him.

  He watched as the strong, coastal wind blew Amanda's hair into her face. She grabbed a handful of it and held it at the back of her head. Her other hand continued to wipe her tears.

  She slowed to a walk, slipped her hand into her sweat suit pocket, and pulled something out. When she raised it up, he saw it was her phone.

  He caught up with her. "Who are you calling?"

  She stopped and faced him. "None of your business."

  "Look, walk all you want, okay? I'll wait for you and then—"

  "I'm calling Jamie for a ride home."

  As gently as he could, he pried the phone out of her hand while she shouted a stream of obscenities he hadn't heard since he'd been discharged from the Marines. He let them pass without a raised eyebrow. He deserved worse.

  "Give me that back!" She stomped her tiny foot on the sandy sidewalk. "Give it back now!"

  "Walk as long as you want," he repeated, "and when you're through, I'll drive you home. We still need to talk."

  "There's nothing else to talk about. Give me my phone."

  He slipped her phone into his pocket. "Take your time."

  From the warmth of his truck, he watched as she stood, huddled against the cold. He wondered if she would head for one of the many buildings lining the beach to borrow a phone. If she did, what would he do, kidnap her? Fortunately, after about ten minutes of the nasty wind chill, she slowly made her way back to him.

  She climbed into the car and crossed her arms. "Take me home."

  "Put on your seatbelt."

  She yanked it on, and he turned the truck around and headed back toward her house.

  "So, last night . . . two women in one night, huh? I guess nobody can question your virility."

  He shook his head slowly. "I didn't sleep with her, Amanda."

  "Why not? I mean, cheat once, cheat twice, cheat a thousand times. It adds up to the same thing. And how am I supposed to believe anything you tell me?"

  "What happened with her, it was a long time ago, before we were married. And I wasn't myself. Between the recovery from Afghanistan, and you not being there, and my parents . . . None of that excuses what I did. I'm just telling you, it was a stupid mistake I've regretted every single day since."

  "Not enough to come clean with me about it, though, huh?"

  "I never wanted to hurt you. There was no reason to tell you."

  "So why are you telling me now?"

  "Because Annalise told my mother, and I didn't want you to hear it from her."

  "Well, how thoughtful, though you probably robbed your mother of what might have been the greatest joy of her life."

  "I don't care about my mother, Amanda. And I don't care about Annalise. I care about you. What happened with her, it didn't mean anything, and honestly, I thought you'd never forgive me, and—"

  "Well, you're right about that. I never will forgive you. Never."

  He nodded slowly. "Hmm. Well, I guess you and my mother have more in common than we thought."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Unforgiveness. It's the number one prerequisite for becoming a bitter old shrew. Just ask Mom."

  "Oh, I don't think so. I think the only thing your mother and I have in common is our poor choice in men." She crossed her arms and stared out the window.

  Mark begged God for wisdom, for words, for . . . something. But God was silent.

  When he parked in front of her house, he turned to her. "Amanda, I love you. That hasn't changed. I love you, and I want you back."

  "I'm filing the papers tomorrow."

  "Please don't. Not while you're so angry. Please wait. You promised—a month."

  "You slept with another woman. I think you win in the whole broken promises department."

  "You're right. But please, just give it . . . if you can't wait a month, then a week."

  "What do you think is going to happen in the next seven days that's going to make me change my mind?"

  "I . . ." He faltered. He had no idea. "Seven days, Amanda. Please."

  She stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

  Twenty

  Smash, 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 calm 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."

  "You did?" It seemed insignificant in light of what had happened that morning, but Mark needed some good news. "Tell me."

  "Well, 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."

  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. We have to assume—"

  "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—"