Page 3 of Finding Amanda

“Nothing. Sorry to bother you. I saw the door open and?—”

She waved away his concern with a rubber-gloved hand. “Oh, you no bother. I cleaning oven. Maybe I rent to pretty girl? Maybe someone you like?”

“Oh, well . . .” Mark cleared his throat. “I’m still married, so?—“

“Married? How you married and living here alone? No, you almost divorced. But I find a pretty girl foryou.”

Mark ignored the rush of adrenaline prompted by the D-word. He backed into the hallway. “Okay, then. I’ll just be going. Sorry to bother you.”

He took the steps two at a time and rushed out the door into the parking lot. Cool, moist air filled his nostrils, the sweet smell of autumn. He shook off the cat pee and oven-cleaning fumes—and the notion of replacing Amanda.

The parking lot seemed in order. The old lady from the corner apartment had parked her twentieth-century green Lincoln in the middle of two spaces. Typical. The rusted red SUV that belonged to the single mother in the basement apartment was parked near the dumpster. The grayish sedan with the busted rear bumper and smashed tail light sat just a few inches from his own truck. He figured he’d find a fresh dent on the passenger door from the kid hitting the truck when he’d climbed out of the car. Mark sighed. That was the least of his problems.

He slid into his pickup and shifted into drive. After a quick stop at the corner gas station, whose coffee was only slightly better than the brew sitting on the counter in his apartment, he headed for his latest work site.

Keep busy. That was his new motto. Obsessing over his separation didn’t help—at least it hadn’t yet. And meanwhile, he had a house to renovate, employees to manage, a business to run.

He was halfway there when his phone rang. He braced himself and answered.

“It’s me,” Amanda said.

“Good morning.” He sounded unnaturally chipper. He toned it down. “Are you on the road?”

“Already stuck in traffic. Listen, I forgot to remind you to give Sophie her medicine. It’s the pink stuff in the fridge.”

“How much?”

“Two teaspoons, twicea day.”

“Will do.”

“Do you have any questions about the girls this weekend? They don’t have anything on the schedule, so at least you won’t have to do much running around.”

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Don’t forget Madi’s inhaler. She needs it?—”

“I know the drill, Amanda. They’re my daughters. I can handle them for three days.”

She sighed. “Okay then, I’ll let you go?—”

“No. I mean . . .” Mark pulled the truck over onto the side of the rural street. “Have you given any more thought to holding off on the memoir?” He tried to sound calm. “It’s not too late. You haven’t actually met with a publisher yet, right?”

“I’m doing this.” Her voice had that snappy tone he particularly hated. “I don’t understand why you’re so against it.”

“Because it could put you in danger. At least let me do some digging before you rush headlong into publishing something that could ruin a man’s life.”

“Oh, so now you’re worried about ruining him?”

Ruining him? Mark wanted to do more than that. “I’m worried about him hurting you. Again.”

“Sure you are.” The words were marinated with sarcasm. “I don’t want you investigating him. The last thing I want is to be on his radar. Not yet, anyway.”

“How wouldmelooking into him putyouon his radar?”

“They have that software now that can tell you who’s searching for you. What if he has it?”

Mark bit back the retort but felt justified in his eye roll. “Fine. Let’s have Chris look him up. Surely the FBI can investigate a man without being discovered.”

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