Page 57 of Finding Amanda

"Okay. I'd like to talk to you in the morning, if you have time. Just for a few minutes about what I learned today."

Her heart stuttered. "Did you find out anything?"

"A little." He raked his hand through his hair. "I'm so tired, though. Can we talk about it tomorrow?"

Amanda glanced at the clock on her microwave. Three forty-five. "Of course. We're bothexhausted."

He grabbed the doorknob.

"Wait. I wanted to say . . ." Amanda took a step forward. "You could be right about stress being the trigger for Madi's asthma attack. I need to be more sensitive about that."

His eyebrows lifted.

"But," she added, "it's possible I'm right about your apartment being the trigger. Would you at least consider moving into those newer places by the highway?"

His shoulders slumped, and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

Automatically she started toward him, then stopped herself. He looked up, and she saw in his eyes naked, blinding pain. She took a step back.

"When I moved out," he said, "it was supposed to be temporary. You said . . . I thought . . ." His voice trailed off. Again, he raked his hand through his hair.

Tears slipped down her cheeks. She was tired and confused. There was space between them, a few short feet that felt impenetrable.

He broke the barrier, closing the distance between them in three steps. Before she could react, he was inches from her, staring down at her. With his knuckle, he wiped her tears. His finger traced her face from beside her eye to the tip of her chin leaving a tingling trail. Against her will, her mouth opened. What was she doing? She snapped her jaw shut and stepped away.

His face shifted to a hard mask. "Fine," he said, though she couldn't remember what she'd said, or if she'd said anything. She couldn't think of anything she'd describe asfine.

"I'll need to get some more clothes. I didn't bring enough for this cold weather. Is it okay if I come by to pick some things up?"

"You can in the morning if?—"

"I won't have time tomorrow. I have to catch up on work. Thursday night?"

"Sure."

"When I searched the house earlier, I heard the faucet leaking again in the master. I'll bring my tools and fix it, if that's okay."

"Sure."

Rotating in place, he returned to the front door and yanked it open. She expected it to slam behind him, but instead he pulled it closed softly. An instant later, he pushed it open again. "Lock it and set the alarm please."

"Okay."

And then he was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Early morning light streamed through the living room window as Mark collapsed on the faded plaid couch, Bible in hand. Yawning, he opened it to the Psalms. He'd been studying the book of Daniel the last couple of weeks, but he wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything as deep as that after just two hours of sleep. The words of the Psalmist usually brought him peace, but this morning the peace felt shallow, the Colorado River of peace running through the Grand Canyon of despair. He closed his Bible after a few minutes, slid to his knees on the old, dingy carpet, and prayed.

Did his prayers even penetrate the ceiling?

He showered and dressed, tugging on a T-shirt, one of the three flannel shirts he'd brought with him from his house a month before, a pair of jeans, and his work boots. It would be a long day, more so because he was exhausted from the night before and because he had to catch up on the work he'd missed during his day off. His crew had worked, of course, but they never managed to accomplish as much as he did.

In the spare bedroom, he found Madi's pink suitcase and Sophie's purple one. He located their things—toothbrushes, hairbrushes, stuffed animals, and clothes—and shoved them in the bags, hoping he got the right items in the right bags. He remembered the first time he'd taken a trip with Amanda and the mountain of luggage she'd brought for the weekend. Apparently, she'd passed down the over-packing gene.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. At least he couldn't see through it this morning. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't make it like Amanda. He couldn't do anything like Amanda.

As he left his apartment, two small suitcases in one hand, insulated mug in the other, Mark remembered his comments the night before—how he'd told Amanda he could take care of himself. It was true. He hadn't starved yet. His clothes were relatively wrinkle-free. His apartment was as clean as he could get it—though not clean enough for his wife, apparently. But oh, how he needed her.

---