Page 118 of Finding Amanda

"Maybe I can figure something out," Chris said. Mark heard Chris tapping on a keyboard in the background. "I've been looking into Morass's past."

"And?"

"Not much. He grew up in Massachusetts, went to Boston University, moved to New York. Long career in publishing. Married, divorced, a couple of kids."

"And a psychiatric patient," Mark added.

"According to Baxter." Chris blew out a breath. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's remember that Alan's been alone with Amanda a couple of times, and he hasn't hurt her."

"Not yet. But if he's working with Sheppard . . . What was the point of all of this? If Sheppard wants her dead, why not just . . . ?" Mark's stomach clenched, and he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Finish her off? I don't know. Maybe . . . I bet it's because of the manuscript. It's evidence. They had to?—"

"Of course." Mark covered his mouth with his hand. "Sheppard had to make sure there were no copies of it out there. And Morass—he told her not to publish. And, I'm so stupid. I played right into it. I told her to stop sending out the manuscript, when instead I should have had her send it to everyone. I hoped Sheppard would hear about it and leave her alone. But instead . . ." Nausea rose in his stomach. Mark swallowed it down. "All I did was . . . was give him the go-ahead to kill her."

"You didn't know, Mark. How could you possibly have?—?"

"And then the break-in last night. Obviously whichever one of them broke into her house, he was after her computer or . . ." He thought back to the scene in Amanda's office. He'd assumed the burglar chose the office because of the rear-facing window, but what if he'd chosen it because the office was theroom he needed? He stared blankly at the parking lot and pictured the office as he'd seen it the night before. He'd opened the desk drawers. He concentrated, tried to remember. "The hard drive," he muttered. "Whoever broke into her house last night must've stolen her hard drive."

Chris understood immediately. "The only other copy of the manuscript is?—"

"On her laptop, which she'll have with her. Sheppard can destroy it when he kills her, and he'll be home free."

"Except we figured it out."

"Yeah." Mark dropped his head into his hand, covered his face. "We'll have evidence at the murder trial. But Amanda will still be dead."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Gabriel wedged himself between the door and the car and talked to Alan over the roof of her sedan. While he was distracted, Amanda searched for something she could use as a weapon, or something to remove the handcuffs. She looked inside the console between the seats. Lots of CDs. Nothing else. She stretched across the car, grabbed her purse from the passenger side floor, and dumped the contents onto the seat.

She needed a paperclip or something. She grabbed a pen and tried to shove it in the keyhole. Too big. She unscrewed the pen, slid the spring inside onto her palm. Her fingers were trembling so badly, she feared she'd drop it. She held it carefully and stuck it in the keyhole. No luck. She grabbed the small plastic tube of ink and shoved it in there, listening to the men talk.

"Do you have her keys?" Gabriel asked.

Alan, standing near the passenger door, reached in his pocket. The keys clattered across the roof of the car. Gabriel pocketed them and closed the car door.

Amanda worked the pen, trying to unlock the cuffs. She couldn't do it. Could she slip her hand out? She tugged,tried to squeeze out, scrunching her hand as small as she could make it. She pulled until tears filled her eyes from the pain. The cuff was too tight. She tried to jimmy the lock again.

Gabriel and Alan met in front of the car. Gabriel laid his right arm across Alan's shoulders, patting him as they walked to Alan's car. Puffs of steamy breath surrounded the two men in the icy air. Alan turned to open his car door, a wide smile on his face.

Her stomach turned over. That fawning sycophant was her only chance for survival. Would he call Mark? Or would Gabriel convince him not to?

When Alan bent to get in his car, Gabriel pulled a rock the size of a baseball from his coat pocket. He gave Alan's shoulder one last squeeze, then struck him on the head.

Alan looked at him, mouth opened in shock.

Gabriel smashed the rock into his head again.

As he fell, Alan looked in her direction. The rock connected with his skull a third time.

Gabriel crouched beside the crumpled man, hit his head again a few times, then leaned over his face. Feeling for breath, maybe? But Amanda knew Alan wasn't breathing. No steam rose from his mouth now.

She'd stopped working the lock. She couldn't scream past the fear in her throat. Felt herself growing dizzy and sick. Alan would tell her to exhale. But Alan was dead.

She had to get away.

Her whole body vibrated as she fumbled with the car door. Finally, the button slid into the locked position.

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