Page 88 of Finding Amanda

CHAPTER TWENTY

Smash, rip, destroy.

Just don't think.

Mark had been dying to tear out this bathroom since they'd begun the renovation project. At first the owners had wanted to restore the old tile and fixtures. But why? Even if they could find the white, octagonal tiles to replace the ones that had broken over the years, they certainly wouldn't be able to match the patina created by decades of dirt and grime. He'd talked them out of it.

He smashed the sledgehammer onto the floor, creating an explosion of dust and shrapnel. Death by bullet. Death by knife. Death by tile. However it came, he longed for it. Anything sounded better than facing the consequences of his own choices.

After Mark had watched Amanda disappear into her house that morning, he'd called Chris. The conversation was short—he told him to have Jamie call Amanda. She needed someone to talk to, and he wanted it to be anyone but Alan. He didn't tell Chris about Annalise. He couldn't bear to talk about it.

He smashed the sledgehammer again, dislodging another few inches of the flooring, and tried to pray. But hisprayers didn't go further thanDear God, nor, he felt, did they rise above the ceiling. He'd created this mess. How could he ask God to help him out of it?

There was something wrong with that sentiment, though at the moment he had no idea what. He'd lost his family, and all he had left was a business he hated and a bunch of employees who counted on him to pay their bills.

He remembered that night at his apartment—had it only been a week before?—when Sophie asked him why he'd moved out.Don't you love us anymore, Daddy?

He'd tried to assure his daughters he loved them. But it wasn't enough. His love wasn't enough to fix the mess he'd made of his life, and his wife and daughters would pay the price.

Suddenly he was twelve years old again. His mother had picked up a pizza and ordered him to take it upstairs and stay there for the duration of the Christmas party. Adults only—that's what she'd told him. But the smells wafting up from the kitchen seduced him. Hearing fading voices after hours of partying, Mark decided the guests were finally going home. His mother had warned him not to show his face until everyone was gone, but with his growling stomach, he couldn't hold off another minute.

He crept down the stairs and into the abandoned kitchen filled with tempting treats. Dips and crackers and cubes of cheese and Christmas cookies and fudge. He piled a paper plate high and listened to the muted conversation in the family room.

He peeked. Just one couple remained, his father's rotund boss and his squat wife. His parents stood at the door with them. His father made a joke and the adults laughed, but something was wrong. His mother's laugh sounded angry. He'd heard that before. Good thing he wasn't the one she was angry with. Whoever it was would get it for sure.

Halfway to the stairs, he heard the door close, followed by his mother's shrill, angry voice. "Who were you with?"

"Calm down, Pat."

"You said you were working last weekend. You lied to me."

"Shh. Do you want Mark to hear? And I was working. I just wasn't at the office. I had some work to get done, and I?—"

"Liar!"

Even Mark could hear the lie in his father's voice. He wanted to run, to not hear any more, but fear and morbid curiosity anchored him in place. Who had his father been with?

They argued. Accusations flew from his mother's mouth, denials from his father's. And then he heard it. An admission. A woman's name. His mother began to cry.

Mark was furious with his father and at the same time, knowing his mother, who could blame him?

He hated them both. And he hated himself for feeling that way. And he hated himself for knowing, for listening when he should have stayed upstairs. Then he would never have known his father was a cheater.

Mark smashed the sledgehammer against the tile. Now he'd done the same thing, only Amanda never deserved it.

His daughters certainly didn't deserve it.

Demolishing the floor, sending shards in every direction, Mark tried to work out some of his guilt and anger. Some days were for building. Some days were for smashing.

He finished the tile, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up. One of his men came in with a dustpan, broom and metal trash can and began to sweep the mess while Mark straddled the edge of the old peach-colored tub. It couldn't possibly be pulled out in one piece. It would need to be destroyed.

Today, he was the man for the job. He'd destroyed the tile. He'd destroyed his family. In light of that, the ugly tub seemedinsignificant as he lifted his right arm, gripped the sledgehammer in a white-knuckled fist, and landed the first blow.

The edge exploded like a mortar blast.

His employee dove out of there like a frightened Afghani villager.

Mark lifted his arm and pounded the porcelain again.

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