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Finding Amanda

By Robin Patchen

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Prologue
Fifteen years ago

Dr. Gabriel Sheppard eyed the girl in the doorway. She’d be perfect.
She paused at the threshold. Most people looked first at the windows, but she turned to his left, toward his massive cherry desk. There was a telephone, a notepad, a pen, and a picture frame that faced away from her, so she couldn’t see the images of his wife and children.
He stood with hands curled over the back of his leather wingback chair while her gaze flicked to the wall of shelves behind him, the reference books and medical journals, then to the child-sized table and chairs, where he often worked with his younger patients, a half dozen small toys arrayed neatly on the tabletop. The girl continued scanning the room, moving quickly past him.
Her eyes were like synthetic sapphires. Not rare, but beautiful. They were drawn next to his collections. She blinked, smirked. Tilted her head to the side, then continued her scan of the room.
Interesting.
Finally, she focused on the wall of windows on his right, the view of Boston Harbor and, twenty stories below, the boats lined along the piers. Her eyebrows lifted, her supple pink lips parted to reveal braces-straight teeth unstained by a coffee habit.
She turned to him and smiled. “Pretty view.”
He nodded once. “Thank you.” He took two steps toward her and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Sheppard.”
Her hand was cool, soft, and quickly enveloped in his. “I’m Amanda.”
He indicated the chair. “Have a seat, Amanda.” He picked up the file from the round coffee table between the chairs while she did what she was told. A good start.
He flipped open the manila folder and read the first sheet. Amanda Prince. Fifteen. Her mother had written a short description of Amanda and her family, along with an explanation of the fatal car accident only Amanda had survived, which seemed the catalyst for the problems that landed her here. Aside from the accident, there was the absence of her older brothers—both of whom were off to college this year—and of the father.
“Well, not absence,” the mother had clarified when they’d met just a few minutes earlier. “Her dad’s just not around much. Works a lot. Travels a lot. You know how it is.”
He did know. The man didn’t have time for his family, probably had a girlfriend on the side.
Gabriel had counseled many kids whose fathers weren’t involved in their lives for one reason or another. Boys often developed anger issues. Girls usually became vulnerable, malleable.
Although he already knew what the file said, he reread it to give the girl a moment to relax. He glanced at her briefly. Beautiful. How long had it been since he’d had one like her in his office? Too long, but no matter. She was here now.
He met her eyes and smiled. “Did you leave school early to come see me?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Not yeah, he noted. Nervous.
Her long, blonde hair fell perfectly straight across her forehead. She pushed it behind her right ear with shaking fingers. Her fingernails were painted light pink, which matched the fitted turtleneck she wore beneath the gray V-neck sweater vest and over the black denim skirt.
His gaze returned to her face. “Do you like school?”
“I guess.” She shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“What grade are you in?”
“Tenth.” She crossed her arms and hugged herself.
He dropped his gaze to the file, but he was distracted as she shifted in her chair, crossed her left knee over her right. Her shiny black boot bounced. Her knee jerked, pale and knobby. He saw the seam where her legs met, the fabric of the skirt drawn tight across her thighs.
He focused on the paper, cleared his throat. “What do you like about school?”
She talked about the teachers and the classes. She was a cheerleader. He could picture that. She spoke for almost two full minutes and tried to reveal nothing. It didn’t work.
He tilted his head to the side. “What about friends?”
She uncrossed her arms, folded her fingers together on her lap, just a few inches above the hem of her skirt. “I have a couple of friends, I guess. The other girls on the squad.”
But the other girls on the squad weren’t why they were here. No, Amanda needed to talk about her best friend.
She looked to her right, toward his collections. First, the ships in bottles that sat on the shelf closer to him. They usually fascinated his male patients, not the girls. And, predictably, Amanda’s eyes shifted to his collection of animal figurines. He’d been collecting them since he started his practice a decade earlier. Only the most realistic animals made their way onto his shelf, always on the same scale. Once a patient gave him a Chihuahua that dwarfed his Great Dane figurine. He’d tossed it out the day the patient left for the last time.
Amanda’s eyes rested on one of the animals.
“You may touch them, if you like.”
She seemed to hesitate, then stood and stepped the few paces to the shelves. He followed, watching her shoulder blades move as her hands skimmed the different figurines, hovering over them, almost close enough to touch, but not quite.
She stepped to the side. Her hips swayed and shifted beneath her skirt.
She pulled the lion into her hand, revealing a short, red scar across the knuckle on her thumb. Probably a remnant from the accident.
“You like it?”
She nodded. He could smell her shampoo—strawberry. And a floral scent he couldn’t place reminded him of the mall. He listened to her breathe. Otherwise the room was silent. Soundproof.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “They all are.”
“Thank you. Feel free to hold them anytime you wish.” He reached out, paused, and then rested his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. “Let’s sit back down.”
She started to return the lion to the shelf.
“You can keep it while you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
She returned to her chair, crossed her legs, and turned the figurine over in her hands. Her fingers, no longer trembling, stroked the painted mane, the length of the lion’s body, as if it were flesh and blood.
His heart raced. He forced his expression to remain unchanged as he watched.

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