Page 50 of Finding Amanda

Amanda usheredthe ladies out the door, happy to be finished with the gourmet dessert class. One woman fancied herself a pastry chef and grilled Amanda with questions while the rest of the guests drank bottles of wine, their voices rising with each pop of the cork.

Amanda usually enjoyed the silence in the house when her girls weren't home. She knew she should miss them, but the rare times she was home alone in the evenings, she relished having the house to herself for a few hours. These days, though, the evenings spent alone were growing more frequent. She yearned for her children. Or maybe she was just scared to be alone.

She turned the deadbolt and set the alarm. There, that was better.

Her cell phone had vibrated in her pocket a couple of timesduring the evening. She pulled it out. Three missed calls, all Alan. Four text messages from him, too.

"Reading your memoir," the first one read. "Part shocked, part impressed. You're a great writer."

The next one said, "I can't believe this guy."

The third one said, "I've been trying to call. I'm worried. Please let me know you're okay."

The last one said, "If you don't call within an hour, I'm driving up there. Seriously."

Amanda half-smiled and dialed his number.

"Amanda?"

"It's me."

"Where've you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you for hours."

A half a bottle of wine had been left by one of her guests. Amanda poured herself a glass. "I'm fine. I had a class tonight."

"Oh. Of course. I think you even told me that. I forgot."

Ignoring the wreck in her kitchen, she curled up in the corner of her sectional. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, half-laughing.

"I finished your memoir tonight. The emotion in it is so strong, so . . . real. It must be hard to live with the turmoil. I was really worried about you."

"I'm fine. You don't have to worry."

He clicked his tongue. "Look, do friends have the right to offer advice?"

She set her glass on the coffee table and sat up straighter. "I guess."

"The manuscript is amazing. I couldn't put it down. It's . . . compelling. Gripping and emotional. And, really, you're a great writer. But I can't even consider publishing it."

She blinked, shocked first by the compliment, then by therejection. "Why not?"

"This psychiatrist sounds like a psychopath. I'm sorry, but you'd be crazy to publish it. It's not worth the risk."

"It's my risk to take," she said, anger, fear, and disappointment vying for position.

"Publishing this is inviting him back into your life. And now that you've run into him, he knows your pen name?—"

"You sound like my husband."

"If that's the case, then your husband's right."

Amanda took a sip of her wine, trying to relax her pounding pulse. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was crazy to publish the memoir.

But then she remembered those days, the way Sheppard took advantage of her, told her he loved her, and used her. She was publishing it. He'd asked for it.

Those words rose to the surface. Was she really doing this for revenge, like Mark said? No. She needed to expose him. And after the book was published, she'd go public with his name, and then he'd be stopped.

"Were the flowers from him?"

---