Page 97 of Finding Amanda

Jamie nodded slowly. "That's true. I don't either. Nobody does, but God offers it anyway."

"I'm not God, and neither are you, so just . . . I don't want to talk about it anymore." She stalked into the living room and turned on the TV.

Jamie joined her on the sofa and found a rerun. Amanda pretended to watch, finding she could easily seethe in anger despite the humor in the sitcom.

Forgive him? Forget it. She would never forgive him.

Mark watchedthrough the window as Amanda climbed out of her sedan and made her way into the diner. When she pushed open the door, he stood and lifted two coffee cups for her to see, hoping he'd ordered correctly.

When she approached, he said, "Extra large Caramel Mocha with skim milk."

With an irritated smirk, she slid off her coat and placed it on the back of the chair across from him before sitting down. She didn't comment on the coffee, which meant he must've gotten it right. As well he should have—they'd been here together a million times.

"Thank you for meeting me."

She nodded and sipped, staring outside at the busy parking lot where people were going about their business, huddled against the cold gray skies but otherwise seemingly content. He wondered, though—what pain were they carrying beneath their masks? Was everyone's life as much of a mess as his? When he'd surrendered to Christ, Mark had thought things would get better, his marriage would improve. And why not, with God on his side? But since then, his world had crumbled, block by block, until he'd ended up . . . here.

Amanda tapped her foot beneath the table.

"We figured out the connection between you and Sheppard."

She scanned the room as if Sheppard were there. "Who is it?"

"A man named Baxter McIlroy."

Her jaw dropped. "He was at my house last Friday?—"

"I know. I talked to Roxie?—"

"You did what? How dare you?"

"Give me a break, Amanda. I'm trying to keep you safe."

She slapped her hand on the table. "You had no right to call my agent."

"You weren't speaking to me, and I needed information. Is that really what you want to talk about?"

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

"McIlroy was one of Sheppard's TAs when he was working on his Master's. And there's evidence they were friends or, at least, more than mere acquaintances. I guess when you sent the manuscript to Roxie this summer, she had him read it."

"He read it? He probably sent Gabriel a copy of it. This is?—"

“Good news. Roxie said she wouldn't tell McIlroy that we know, and I've been thinking . . . I assume you don't want me to join you this weekend in New Hampshire."

"Pfft. You assume right."

He absorbed the blow. This was his last chance. "I want to come, just to keep you safe. We could stay in separate rooms, I could go with you to the bookstore . . ." His voice trailed off as she shook her head. "I really want to come."

"I guess you should have thought about that before you slept with Annalise."

"You mean nine years ago? You know how Chris calls meProphet? It’s not true. I can't actually see into the future."

"Oh, I don't think it took any extraordinary skills to see this coming."

He raked his hands through his hair. "Fine. Then I thought we could . . . you could . . . call Roxie and ask her to mention to McIlroy that you've decided to skip the signing. If I'm right, he'll tell Sheppard, and then you'll be safe, at least this weekend. The guy could still call the bookstore and find out, unless you're really willing to cancel it."

"No."

---