Page 55 of Finding Amanda

"You know I can," she said. "We've been doing great."

"So you don't need me and I don't need you," he clarified, glaring at her.

"Sounds about right."

He leaned back in his chair. Sophie twisted, rubbed one of her eyes with a fist, and rested against his shoulder again.

"But it's not true." His shoulders slumped. "I'm miserable without you."

Could that be true? She remembered the nightmare she'd had earlier, the memories it awoke in her, and she knew it wasn't. Mark loved his daughters enough to put up with her. He loved his house, loved having someone take care of him. But he didn't love her. How could he, after all she'd confessed? When she'd told him the truth about her past, she'd hoped he would still love her, but Mark could never accept her faults. And now that he was a Christian, he was even worse. No, Mark wanted her back because he loved his daughters, and he loved his home, and he loved his life. Just not her.

She would not be used again.

Mercifully the doctor returned and woke Madi for a breathing test. A few minutes later, they were released.

Mark carried Sophie to the parking lot while Amanda carried Madi. Sophie asked her father a couple of sleepy questions, but Amanda could tell she was barely awake. They'd decided during those few, tense moments while the doctor was in the room that Madi and Sophie would be more comfortable in their own beds for the rest of the night, so Amanda led the way to her car. While she set the sleeping Madi in her booster seat, Mark did the same with Sophie, who was already asleep again.

Through the darkness of the backseat, he said, "I'll follow you home."

She clicked the seat belt and stood to face him over the top of the car. "I can manage without your help."

He turned and walked across the parking lot to his truck. "See you in a minute," he called over his shoulder, leaving no room for argument.

With a sigh, she climbed into the driver's seat. A few minutes later, she turned into her driveway. The house looked deserted. She hadn't even flipped on the porch light before she'd run out earlier.

She'd barely slipped the gear into park when Mark climbed out of his truck. He ran around the front of his car, scooted between their two cars, and knocked on her window. The little she could see of him in the darkness revealed a worried, intense expression. She rolled down the window. "What?"

"Stay in the car and lock your doors." With no word of explanation, he turned and yanked open the passenger side door of his truck. She could only see his back now, inches from her window. A moment later, he closed the door again and headed toward the house. Something reflected in the moonlight. He was holding something in his right hand. She gasped. He'd grabbed his gun.

Her heart thundered. What was he doing? What had he seen?

He slowly drew the storm door back, then nudged the front door open with his foot. The gun disappeared into the house an instant before he did. All was silent except for the sleepy sounds of her daughters and the rush of blood through her veins. A sliver of the moon broke through the darkness, but the naked, shimmering branches of the trees that arched over the driveway hid most of its light.

She stared at the clock. Should she call the police? Whatwould Mark say if she did? What would she tell them except that her husband was sneaking through her probably empty home carrying an illegal gun? No, calling the police wasn't an option.

He'd only been gone one minute.

What had he seen? She studied the front of the house and the driveway in front of her. In her rearview mirror, she studied the driveway behind her. She looked at the forest to her left, at the grassy yard to her right, and saw nothing unusual.

Two minutes down.

She remembered Chris's words about Mark's uncanny instincts. The prophet—that was what they called him. What had his intuition told him this time? The clocked ticked past three minutes, four minutes, and five, while she considered the question.

A dim light flashed upstairs in the master bedroom windows. A flashlight, she realized. Was he searching the entire house? What if someone was in there? What if that person was armed, too? Would she hear a gunshot? What would she do? Mark would want her to drive away, to protect their daughters, but what about him?

Six minutes down.

She tried to analyze why it was, if she no longer loved him, that the thought of something happening to him caused her breathing to go nutty again. How many times would she hyperventilate in one week?

Seven minutes . . . eight minutes.

Finally, the front door opened. Mark emerged and climbed down the front steps. He held the gun in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

She opened her car door, and he glared at her. The message was clear. Stay in the car. She slammed the door and locked it.

Mark aimed the light on the bushes against the house, thenpassed the garage, seemed to search the woods beside her, and turned the corner. She watched as the flashlight beam faded and disappeared. How far could he possibly search, and what was he looking for?

Mercifully, he emerged on the opposite side of the house a few long moments later, gun swinging by his right hip, flashlight casually leading the way back to her car. Tentatively, she unlocked her door, opened it, and stepped outside. His eyes were intense, but he offered an unconvincing smile.

---