CHAPTER THREE

      GRIFFIN WAS STILL seething when he locked up that night. Where did Sunshine Donovan get off, telling him how to deal with his children? He cast a glance at Amanda’s room.

      It was after eleven o’clock, and her light still glowed through the gap in the half-closed door. Then he heard her voice.

      For a second Griffin hesitated. He picked his battles these days, but with an inner sigh he rapped a knuckle against her door. “Amanda?” When she didn’t answer, he knocked again.

      “Go away,” she said.

      That sulky tone of voice drove him nuts. It was almost as if she hated him.

      “I need to talk to you,” he said.

      “I don’t want to talk.”

      Griffin pushed the door open. “Too bad,” he said, his mind made up.

      Amanda was sitting on her bed, outside the covers. She wore blue pajamas, a bunch of pink-and-lime and green-and-purple pillows piled around her. Her favorite stuffed giraffe lay cuddled under her arm, and her cell phone was in her other hand.

      “Hang up,” Griffin said.

      Amanda’s expression was one of utter disgust, but with a put-upon sigh she obeyed. “See you tomorrow. He’s here,” she told someone at the other end of the line.

      He waited for a long moment, trying to choose his words with care.

      “I thought we had agreed. No phone calls after nine o’clock.”

      “I couldn’t sleep. Neither could Dixie.”

      Griffin almost groaned aloud. Ever since he and his kids had moved to Jacksonville, Amanda had acquired a strange new set of friends. Or, rather, one friend specifically. And she set his teeth on edge.

      “Did you finish your homework?”

      He didn’t have to ask. Her notebook lay on the desk across the room, unopened. On top, a stack of assignment forms appeared to be blank.

      “I’ll do it later.”

      “It’s almost midnight, Mandi. You need sleep.”

      She huffed out another aggrieved sigh. “So, what am I supposed to hand in tomorrow? I thought my grades were important to you.”

      Her tone reminded him about her low average last spring but again Griffin took time to respond, his worst instincts going off like fireworks inside. For the first time he wondered if Sunny Donovan had been telling the truth. Frankly, as soon as she’d accused his daughter, he’d been too angry to think.

      Not a welcome reaction on his part, but he’d thought about Sunny all evening while the Patriots kicked Miami around the football field. That was just what he needed. A woman who thought his daughter was a thief. A woman whose coloring reminded him of Rachel, someone driven—like himself in his TV anchor days.

      “Your grades should be important to you,” he told Mandi. “You’ll be in high school next year. Four years after that there’ll be college.” How was that even possible? Where had the time gone? “Yes, grades matter. And in this house—”

      “It’s not a house. It’s an apartment. We don’t have a home anymore.” She had that disdainful look on her face that made Griffin want to throw something. Not that he would.

      But getting into a fight about semantics didn’t seem wise.

      “Look,” he said, “let me remind you. I’m the adult here. You’re the kid.” He started toward the nearest switch plate. “Lights out. Now.”

      Halfway across the room Griffin stopped cold. Mandi’s whitewashed dresser—something she called shabby chic—was next to the switch. And on the dresser lay a watch.

      His stomach sank in a dizzying rush.

      The watch matched the description Sunny Donovan had given. Perfectly. There could be no mistake. He picked it up, ran his fingers over the colorful glass beads.

      “Where did you get this?”

      She sounded bored. “What?”

      “This watch. It’s not yours.”

      “It is now.”

      “Meaning?”

      “Um, Dixie gave it to me.” She was clearly buying time, making up some story as she went along. “She didn’t want it anymore.”

      Maybe a friend let her wear it. He’d said so himself. With everything in him, Griffin wanted to believe her. Only he didn’t.

      How many times had he heard that same tone of voice whenever Amanda was shading the truth? Right now she was plucking at some imaginary lint on her flower-patterned sheet, and her cheeks had turned an intimidating red. Her fingers trembled. She glanced at the photo album she kept on her nightstand. Next to it stood a framed picture of Rachel.

      “Don’t lie to me, Amanda.”

      She didn’t respond, and Griffin had no choice but to tell her about Sunny’s earlier visit. His daughter listened in stony silence.

      “Why do you always think I’m guilty?” she asked when he’d finished. “It’s like you want to find something wrong.” Tears quivered in her voice. “You still like Josh, but you don’t like me.”

      Mandi is not unhappy, he’d told Sunny.

      Holding the watch, Griffin walked back to the bed. Her bent head spoke of guilt. Yet she wouldn’t admit it. She’d tried to sidetrack him with a completely different subject.

      Right after Rachel had left, the counselor had said Griffin’s first task would be reassuring his children that he was still here for them. But despite his best efforts, Amanda didn’t feel secure.

      He had to tread lightly. True, he was deeply disappointed that Amanda had taken the watch, but he wouldn’t show her how he felt. He never did. In an effort to avoid more damage to his family, Griffin struggled to maintain a deceptively calm—some would say closed-off—facade.

      Yes, he was the grown-up here, the guy who had to keep things together. Make Daddy proud. To avoid upsetting his motherless daughter’s fragile equilibrium, he had to say the right thing.

      And