writing in the car. Immediately I knew the other books were filled as well.
My fingers shaking, I read the first page:
July 14, 2003
Joseph Dennison.
Probably early 30s but dresses like he’s 60, lots of beige sweaters and windbreakers, goofy grandpa hats. Kind of cute in a skinny, Tobey McGuire way, but older. Thin, but not a stick figure. Worked as a librarian for three years, says he wants to be a screenwriter. Helped me find that old V.C. Andrews book that the store in town didn’t have. Wears too much cologne. I don’t think he has a girlfriend and he’s definitely not married. Says he’s seen over a thousand movies and can remember the best lines from each one. I quizzed him once and he got them all right. It was kinda scary. Not attracted to him, but curious. Can’t imagine there’s much room for advancement at the library, so why work there when you’re 30? Some people’s motivations are strange.
I read another entry.
August 29, 2003
Gas station attendant, likely late 40s, early 50s. Looks like he hasn’t bothered to shave in four or five days. His workshirt is covered in oil and he looks miserable while he fills up my tank. There’s no name tag, but someone who I assume is the manager calls him Ali. He says “thank you” when I tip him two bucks, then stuffs it in his shirt pocket. He gives the tip money to the guy behind the counter, who pockets it. I wonder how much Ali makes per year and if he has a family. I didn’t remember to look for a wedding ring. I wonder if he’s happy.
I put the notebook back, took another. Read six entries. Each one described a different person who’d crossed Amanda’s path. Some were random, some familiar-an old boyfriend who dumped her the day after they exchanged I-love-you’s for the first time. Some she’d only met for seconds and some she’d known for years. I’d never seen anything like it.
Then it hit me. Somewhere in the room was the notebook she’d used in the car with her first impressions of Carl Bernstein.
I dug to the very bottom of the trunk until I scraped bottom. I pulled out a notebook and flipped it open.
February 3, 1985
I miss Mommy. I don’t know anyone else at school. The kids laugh when we sit in a circle and I don’t know who to sit next to. Jimmy Peterson poured milk in my hair. I hate Jimmy. He’s an ugly boy and his hair is too long. I pulled it once and Miss Williams sent me out of the room. Lacey and Kendra laughed when Jimmy poured milk on me. I hate them, too. Lacey has a pretty purple dress I wish was mine. Jimmy’s house is two streets away from my new one and I see him some mornings. I don’t like to look at him. Sometimes I hide behind trees. I wonder if his mother knows what a stupid boy he is. Maybe she’s stupid, too. If Mommy and Daddy were here nobody would laugh at me.
I quickly closed the book and put it back in its place. The large, childlike handwriting, so heartfelt and pained, heralded a life that had been interrupted, deeply scarred.
What sort of insecurities did this young woman have, that every person she met needed to be catalogued?
I scanned the notebooks at the top of the trunk, found nothing about me.
Then I noticed Amanda’s jacket thrown over her desk chair. I checked the pockets. Nothing. I gently opened her drawers. Nada. Sweat beaded down my neck. My leg ached.
The clothes she was wearing in the car. Maybe in her pockets.
I checked under the bed, only found dust balls and bent plastic combs. About twenty of those elastic ponytail holders.
Could Amanda have brought her clothes into the bathroom? It was possible she already put them in the wash. But then she wouldn’t have left the notebook in her pocket. She’d been doing this for too long to be careless. It had to be somewhere.
I started rifling through her shelves, picking books off and searching behind them.
Then I noticed that the shower had stopped running.
I froze.
Panicking, I closed the trunk and slid it back under the bed. I straightened out the bookshelf, praying she hadn’t caught me snooping.
Then I heard a noise by the door.
She’d seen me.
I held my breath, waited for a sound, afraid to look at her. How long had she been there? Had she seen me going through her notebooks?
I turned around slowly, fully expecting to see Amanda in the doorway, arms folded, ready to kick me out of her house and out of her life. I tried to sponge together an explanation. It was pointless. I had to come clean. I had to tell her the truth.
Yet when I turned around, the image that burned itself into my mind wasn’t Amanda-who was standing in the doorway-but the man standing behind her with a gun to her head.
21
The look of absolute terror on Amanda’s face froze me instantly. Her body was rigid, her mouth pursed shut. She was too scared to scream.
The man’s countenance was calm, relaxed. He wore black jeans and a dark jacket, covering everything up to his lightly stubbled jaw. His eyes were cold, perfunctory. He was in his early thirties, with high cheekbones, short hair, sinewy forearms. His gun hand was firm, his posture steady, not rigid, ready to strike. He spoke in an even tone, but through gritted teeth. There was a faint trail of mist coming from the hallway. The shower. Jesus. He was in the bathroom with Amanda, using the shower as subterfuge. She was still wearing the same clothing. I even noticed a slight bulge in her pocket. The missing notebook.
“Amanda…” I said, the words spilling out of my mouth like water. “Who…”
“That’s not important,” he said, his voice like metal. The second time in a day a gun was pointed at my head. And just like the last one, the safety latch was off. I could tell he’d held people at gunpoint before. Many times. “The what, now Parker, that’s what is of real importance.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. Amanda trembled as involuntary sobs escaped her mouth.
The man nodded to me, flicked the gun. “I want the package you stole from Luis Guzman. That’s the only thing you need to worry about. If you give it to me, you’re the only one who will die here tonight.”
The only one…
Amanda.
Oh, God.
“I don’t have it, I swear.”
“Parker, you’re going to give me what you took or your female friend here will be breathing out the back of her skull. And I’m going to make you watch her die before I ask again.”
“Carl,” Amanda said, her voice shrill, pleading. Again the name took a moment to register. “Why is he calling you that name? What’s happening?”
The man laughed softly, raised his eyebrows. “Carl? Is that what you told her? You really don’t look much like a Carl.”
“Amanda, I can explain.”
The man shook his head. “No, Henry, you won’t. There’s no buying time, no explanations. You give me what I want and Miss Davies gets to wake up tomorrow morning.”
Amanda twitched. He was too strong. She couldn’t budge.
“Listen,” I said, trying not to stammer, my body numb, “I swear I don’t know anything about a package. The newspapers were wrong. The Guzmans were lying.”
Amanda’s head swung toward me. There was fear in her face, but a hint of anger as well. She knew I was hiding something. My deception had somehow led this man to her house. Had put a gun to her head. A cold lump rose in my throat. She could die because of me. And we both knew it. I mouthed the words I’m sorry, knowing how
