Page 104 of Finding Amanda

"There's just one. Alan Morass."

"That's it?" So much for having a new list of names to check on. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Can you tell me where Mr. Morris works?"

"Certainly. He works for Martindale Books here in New York."

Had Chris checked Martindale? Mark had never heard of them.

"But it's not Morris," she explained. "It's Morass. M-o-r-a-s-s. Like chaos or quagmire."

Chaos or quagmire?Conniving, wife-stealing, son of a. . . Mark reined in his temper. "That explains why we can't find him."

Mark called Chris and updated him on the information. Chris promised he'd look into Alan Morass that evening.

Mark and his daughters played Candy Land. He loved spending time with Sophie and Madi, but he was ready for their fascination with that game to become a memory. He'd purchased other games, hoping to seduce them away from the mindless race through the Candy Cane forest, but nothing captured their attention like Candy Land.

He wanted to leave the house by five o'clock. He didn't know what time Annalise returned home from work, since he'd been avoiding his apartment ever since he'd seen her Tuesday night, working long hours at the Carlisle house to keep from running into her. He certainly didn't want his daughters meeting her. Whenever he considered it, he remembered Sophie's question the week before.Did you find a prettier wife, Daddy?

So they went out for pizza, and then he took them to a movie. It was after nine by the time they got home, and the girls fell into their beds in the spare room and drifted off to sleep.

Mark's sleep had been remarkably normal the last two nights. He shouldn't have slept a wink, knowing his wife was divorcing him, and whenever he allowed himself to think aboutit, the emotions would rise. Guilt, anger, sadness, and regret would fill his stomach and constrict his heart, tormenting him. And then he would focus on God, remember His promises, and allow His peace to settle the emotions. God knew what He was doing, and life wasn't about Mark's happiness. He focused on that thought as he climbed into bed a couple of hours after the girls went down, shutting off the light and falling to sleep.

The phone woke him. He looked at the clock, saw it was almost three in the morning, and snatched the phone off his bureau. "Hello?"

"Is this Mark Johnson?" said a man's voice.

His insides tightened into a knot. "Yes."

"This is Officer Baker of the Norwell P.D. The alarm's going off at your house. Are you out of town?"

Thank God. "I'm home. At my apartment—the house is my wife's. She's not there."

"We're outside the house now. I need you to come down and open the door."

"Okay. Uh . . ." He had the girls. Should he wake them and bring them? Or could he leave them with someone—maybe Chris and Jamie? But their home was miles from here.

"Sir? Are you there?"

"Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Mark hung up, dressed quickly, and stuck the cell in his pocket. Very reluctantly, he decided on his best course of action, and a moment later, found himself knocking softly on Annalise's door.

She answered wearing a pink tank top, printed pajama pants, and fuzzy pink slippers. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Can you come over and stay with my girls? Someone broke into my house, and I have to go check it out."

She blinked. "Um, sure. Is your wife okay?"

"She's on a trip."

"Oh. Okay." Annalise grabbed her keys, locked her door, and followed him across the hall. In his apartment, he pointed to the couch, and she sat.

He ran to his bedroom, grabbed a pillow and blanket off his bed, and brought them out to her. "Go back to sleep. I'm sure they'll sleep through, but if they wake up, you'll know it." He found a pen and notebook paper on the kitchen table and wrote down his phone number. "Call me if you need me."

She yawned, half asleep. "Okay. What're their names?"

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