Page 103 of Finding Amanda

"Good point. But there's another thing. You said the guy's name is Alan Morris, right? But I haven't been able to turn up anybody with that name at any publishing company, anywhere."

"Really?" Mark thought back to the conversation he'd had with the man two weeks earlier. It felt like months had passed. He'd definitely saidAlan Morris. "Hmm, I know that's what he said."

"Maybe he's not really an editor at all. Maybe he's an imposter or something."

"No. Amanda had heard of him before. He's legit."

"Okay. Why don't you call Amanda and ask her who the guy works for?"

"Ask my soon-to-be ex about her new boyfriend, so I can investigate him? That'll go over like a lead balloon."

"Good point."

The light turned green, and Mark followed the traffic through the intersection and turned onto the street that would lead him back to work. "You know what? I'll ask that lady in New York who sent me the list. I'm sure she'll know. And I'll see if I can find out why we don't have all the names. If I dig up a few more, will you have time to help me?"

"I'll do what I can, but . . ."

Mark squeezed the steering wheel tighter. "What?"

"Do you think maybe you're just confused? You know I trust your instincts, but Jamie told me what happened with that model. And she told me you decided you want the divorce."

He closed his mouth in a tight line, willing his emotions in check. "She did, did she?"

"She said you told Amanda to file the papers."

"I did."

"So you're giving up?"

Giving up? Was that what he was doing?

That morning, he'd been caulking around the interior of a new window when a white sedan pulled up outside the Carlisle house. A young woman carrying a manila envelope headed for the front door. She rang the bell, filling the house with a scratchy, painful sound. As he opened the door, he thoughtI'll have to replace that doorbell.

The woman smiled. "Mark Johnson?"

"Yes."

She handed him a manila envelope. "You've been served."

Mark pushed the memory away. "It's in God's hands now. I don't know what else to do."

"So maybe you're mistaking your instincts for guilt or?—"

"This isn't about my marriage. It's about keeping her alive."

"If you say so. Let me know if you get more names."

Mark ended the call. Was Chris right? Maybe his instincts were off. He usually followed them, but pushing Amanda for divorce went against every instinct he had. Maybe he was making a big mistake—about everything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When 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?"

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