Page 93 of Finding Amanda

Finally, she settled on a news program. Two men and a woman were debating—something about the economy. The tax rate. They were shouting at each other, but Amanda couldn't follow their arguments. How could people be arguing about anything as mundane as taxes when the world had come crashing down?

She flipped the channel, looking for something more engaging. A rerun of a doctor's show filled with conflict and anger and accusations. She flipped again and again, but nothing drew her in. Everything reminded her of Mark. He permeated her thoughts until his face was on the head of every man on TV. She hated him. Oh, how she hated him.

She turned off the TV and headed for the stairs, feeling her way to her bedroom through a haze of tears.

She fell onto Mark's side of the bed, wishing he were there. And wishing he were dead. If he were dead, grieving him would make sense. As it was, she would still have to look at the face of the man who'd lied to her. She'd have to treat him like he still existed for the sake of her daughters, when she now knew the man she had fallen in love with had never really existed.

Of course he wasn't perfect—she knew that. After nine years of marriage, she thought she knew all his flaws. But she'd always trusted Mark Truman Johnson. Truth—truth was his middle name.

Oh, he'd gotten the name from his mother—Truman was her maiden name. And Pat the dragon was all about truth. She wielded it like a weapon, unsheathing it at the slightest provocation. Sometimes with no provocation at all, Pat would use the truth to keep the people she claimed to love tiptoeing on the shards of their shame.

But Mark? Her Mark had held truth like treasures, never weapons. Her Mark.

Amanda pulled the covers over her head and gave in to sobs.

Two years earlier, when she confessed her relationship with her psychiatrist, if Mark had turned away from her in disgust, she would have been hurt, but she wouldn't have been surprised. He was so perfect, and she so flawed. How could she have blamed him? But he didn't reject her. Instead he'd claimedonly to be angry with Gabriel. But now . . . Could she believe that now?

Could she believe anything he'd ever said to her?

She'd always thought of Mark as the honest one. Oh, she wasn't a liar, but she didn't stand on truth like he did. She'd always pictured him like that—like a man whose foundation was built on truth. Almost as if his height came from the truth he stood on. And—she was barely able to face it—she knew she'd ordered her life on Mark's truth. She hadn't had her own foundation to stand on, so she'd nudged herself onto his. Mark was strong. He could support them both. It was why she'd been so confused by his decision to go to church, to rely on some big, invisible God when he was so strong by himself. He'd carried them both for their entire marriage.

And it was all a lie.

Like living through an earthquake, her world was crumbling beneath her feet, and she knew she would be swallowed up in the void.

Because if Mark couldn't be trusted, then the foundation of her life was gone.

Mark was haulingout the last of the demolished bathroom when his phone rang. He saw the familiar number, but he couldn't place it. He tossed the heavy bag into the Dumpster and answered it.

"Mr. Johnson? It's Nancy at the school. Your wife didn't pick up the girls, and she's not answering her phone."

"I'm on my way." Running to his truck, he yelled to one of his employees that he'd be back. In the cab, he jammed his foot on the gas, dialing the phone at the same time. Amanda didn't answer, so he tried her best friend.

"Jamie, it's Mark. Have you talked to Amanda?"

"I'm outside your house right now. Her car's in the driveway, but she isn't answering the door. Is something wrong?"

"The school just called. She didn't pick up the girls. You have to get in there."

"I don't have a key."

Mark turned toward the school, cutting off a car in the process. He spoke louder than the blaring horn behind him. "Go into the backyard. There's a hide-a-key."

Mark waited while she did what he asked.

"Okay, where is it?"

"On the porch, there are three pots on the far side. You see them?"

"Uh-huh."

"Underneath the largest one."

"Okay, hold on." He waited while she looked, hearing the screech of clay against wood. "I don't see it."

"It might be between the pot and the tray."

"Okay." He heard a grunt and the sound of rocks scraping together. "Yeah, there it is. I'll let myself in and call you if there's a problem."

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