by Aimee Molloy
“Welcome to the Lawrence House,” I said. “I hope you’ll like it here.” He then told me he had arranged to have an extra lock installed on his office door, but had to catch a train to New York; would I mind letting in the locksmith? His name was Gary Unger from Gary Unger Locksmiths, Sam said, adding how he wished he’d been part of the focus group Gary Unger must have hired to come up with the perfect name for his business. I laughed and told Sam I’d be happy to let him in. In fact, I was always happy to help.
“And how well do you know him?” Sheehy asks, jarring me back to the room.
“As well as any landlord knows a tenant,” I say. “We say hi when we cross paths.”
“Was he a good tenant?”
“Very good.”
“Pay the rent on time?”
“He didn’t pay rent.”
He and the boy cop snap their heads at me. “Nothing?” Sheehy asks. “That’s awfully generous of you.”
“Well, before you go out of your way to recommend me for sainthood, we had an arrangement. Sam agreed to help me around the house. Small things. Changing lightbulbs. Taking out the trash. As you said, this house is a lot for one person.”
“Especially old ones like this. Always something.” Sheehy shakes his head like he has some experience with this. “What about strange characters? You seen any of them hanging around downstairs?”
John Gently smirks. “Aren’t they all a little nuts? I got a sister who goes to therapy. Two hundred dollars she pays to complain about her husband for forty-five minutes. Rich people sure are good at coming up with ways to spend all that money.”
I force my face into a neutral expression. If this young man only knew the number of people Sam has helped—the things he’s done for me, just by osmosis—he would know Sam is worth every penny. “No, no strange characters,” I say, addressing Franklin Sheehy. “Of course, a therapist always has to be careful about issues around transference.”
“Excuse me?” he says, peering at me from under the frames of his glasses.
“It’s not uncommon for patients to idealize their therapist,” I explain. “Develop an unhealthy need to be close to them.” Like, for instance, the French Girl with a history of inappropriate relationships, who, if I were you, I’d look into.
“He talk to you about his patients?” the kid asks, trying to insert himself.
I laugh. “Of course not. That would be a clear violation of HIPAA. But anyone with half a brain can imagine that that type of work is as difficult as it is rewarding.”
“Uh-huh,” Sheehy says, looking bored. “And the night of the storm. His wife told us you reported seeing Dr. Statler leave his office?”
“Yes, that’s right. Around five,” I say. “I’m kicking myself for not telling Sam about the travel advisory you’d put into place. I doubt he has time to check the weather report when he’s down there helping people all day. I could have—”
“Oh I wouldn’t beat myself up if I were you,” Sheehy says, peering down at his notebook again. “You know how some people are. Can’t tell them anything.”
“Do you think he had an accident?”
“Not ruling anything out,” Sheehy says. “Got an eye out for his car.” He closes the book. “Shame we can’t get inside his office for a look around. No key, I hear?”
“Privacy issues,” I say, shaking my head. “Sam was a real stickler.”
“That’s what you like to hear,” Sheehy says. “A person who still values privacy.”
“Yes, indeed,” I say. “I’m sorry I’m not much help.”
Sheehy sticks his glasses in his front pocket and stands up. “You’ll call us if anything . . .” he says as I lead them through the foyer.
“Of course. Good luck,” I call after them as they head back to the car under a cold rain. “I hope you find him.”
Chapter 18
Annie stands at the window and dials the number again. “St. Luke’s emergency room, can I help you?” It’s the same woman who answered a few hours ago.
“Yes, hi, this is Annie Potter,” she says. “I called earlier, inquiring if there have been any reports of an accident since last night. My husband didn’t come home—”
“His name again?”
“Sam Statler.”
Annie hears the woman typing. “Give me one second.” The line fills with a Richard Marx song. This is the third call she’s placed since eight last night, and not once before was she put on hold. Maybe this means they found his name in the register and—
“Sorry about that,” the woman says, returning to the line. “Had to sneeze. And no, no accident victims brought in tonight.”
Annie exhales. “Thanks,” she says, hanging up. She slides the phone into the back pocket of her jeans, and remains at the window, willing his stupid car to appear in the driveway. She imagines him parking under the pine tree, in his usual spot, and running toward the house, a pepperoni pizza in his hands. “Waited nearly fifteen hours for this thing,” he’d say, shaking the rain from his hair. “The service at that place is terrible.”
She paces the room, ending up in the kitchen. Sam’s hoodie is where he left it yesterday, draped over a stool at the island, and she slips into it, opening the refrigerator and staring blankly inside. Her phone rings in her pocket, and she scrambles for it, her heart sinking when she sees the number. It’s not him. It’s Maddie, her cousin, calling from France.
“Hear anything?” Maddie asks when Annie answers.
“Nothing.” Annie called Maddie last night, telling her they were having a bad storm and Sam was two hours late coming home. The town had issued a travel warning, the chief of police advising people to stay off the roads. Annie’s calls were going right to his voice mail, and she’d decided to brave the roads and drive to the Lawrence House, praying he had decided to stay at the office to wait out the storm. The rain battered her windshield so hard she could barely see. Downtown was dark and deserted, large branches strewn across the street. Her phone vibrated on the passenger seat as she drove over the bridge on Cherry Lane toward the Lawrence House: an emergency alert from the National Weather Service. Flash flood warning in effect. Avoid high water areas. Check local media.
The Lawrence House was dark, and Sam’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Annie got drenched as she raced down the path to Sam’s office, where she cupped her face to the glass. The waiting room was dark, the door to his office closed.
“Did you call the police?” Maddie asks.
“Yes, last night. An officer took my statement, said they’d keep an eye out for his car.”
“That’s good, right?” Maddie says.
“None of this is good.”
Maddie sighs heavily. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m terrified,” Annie says.
“You want me to come over?” Maddie asks.
“Of course I want you to come over,” Annie says. “But you live in France.” Maddie, her cousin, is the closest person to her, the daughter of her mother’s twin sister, Therese. It was at their house Annie spent holidays after her parents died, with the aunt and uncle who opened their home to her as if she were their daughter.
“I know,” says Maddie. “But they have airplanes now. I can be there tomorrow.”
“I’m fine.” She tells Maddie she’ll call if she hears anything and then heads down the hall to the bedroom. She stops at the French doors that open onto the stone patio and sees they’ve lost one of the young oaks they planted a few weeks after moving in. Sam will be back to clean up the yard, she thinks. He’ll be out there tomorrow, piling branches into his wheelbarrow for firewood.
She sits on his side of the bed and rests her face in her hands. Something’s been off with him. For a few weeks now he’s been distracted and distant, sleeping poorly at night. She asked him the other day, over breakfast, if he wanted to talk about what was on his mind, and he grumbled something vague—the new practice, his mother—making it clear that he didn’t. She left it alone, figured he’d
tell her when he was ready.
She lies back and closes her eyes, and she’s on the cusp of sleep when she hears a car in the driveway. She scrambles out of bed and looks out the window. It’s the police.
“Franklin Sheehy,” the man says when she opens the door. “Chief of police.”
“Did you hear something” she asks, terrified.
“No, ma’am. Checking in.” A kid with a baby face appears behind him. “This is John Gently.” Annie recognizes his name; he’s the officer who took her statement last night. “Got a few minutes?”
“Yes, come in.” She ushers them inside, into the living room.
“We just came from the Lawrence House,” Franklin Sheehy says. “Both the owner and the neighbor across the street saw your husband leave the office around five p.m. I’m assuming you’ve heard nothing from him?”
“No, nothing,” she says, as the cops sit on the couch opposite her. “I’ve been calling his phone, but it’s dead.”
“How do you know it’s dead?” Sheehy asks.
“It goes right to voice mail.”
“What I mean is, how do you know he didn’t intentionally turn it off?”
She frowns. “Because why would he do that?”
Sheehy ignores the question and takes a notebook and reading glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I know you went through things with Officer Gently, but mind if I get some additional background?”
“Of course,” she says.
“Any problems we should know about?” Sheehy asks. “Gambling, drinking?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“How’s his mood been?”
She hesitates. “Fine,” she says. “Mostly. He’s been a little distracted.”
“He talk to you about it?”
“No,” she says. “But we’re going through a big transition. Moving here, taking care of Sam’s mother. It’s a lot.”
Sheehy shakes his head and tsks. “Heard about Margaret. Real shame. She never was the same after Ted left for that girl.” He clasps his hands. “I hate to ask, but any chance your husband might have a little something on the side himself?”
“No,” Annie says. “Nothing on the side.”
“How do you know?”
The two men are watching her. “Because I know my husband, and he wouldn’t do that.”
John Gently laughs loudly. “Sorry,” he says, clapping a hand to his mouth and glancing at Sheehy, embarrassed. “It’s just . . . Stats and I went to the same high school, years apart. The guy’s a legend.”
Annie gives the kid a cursory glance. “Yes, well, that was twenty years ago. Sam’s evolved.” She turns back to Sheehy. “Were you able to get into my husband’s office?”
“No, unfortunately. You were right. Landlord doesn’t have a key.”
“I know,” she says, confused. “But can’t you get in some other way?”
“No, ma’am,” Sheehy says. “The evidence required to enter someone’s office needs to be arguable, which I’m afraid is not the case here.”
“Arguable?” Annie says. “What does that mean?”
“Gently?”
“It means,” he says, sitting up straighter, “that if Chief Sheehy were to take a letter requesting a search warrant to the district attorney and ask her to show up in Judge Allison’s courtroom when all the chief has is a guy who didn’t come home from work, nobody’s going to be happy.”
“Bingo,” Sheehy says.
“Didn’t come home from work?” Annie says. “I hope you’re not suggesting there’s any chance that Sam . . . left?” She’s doing her best to stay composed. “He drove home in a terrible storm. He was probably in an accident.”
Sheehy and Gently exchange a look, and then Sheehy nods and returns the notebook to his pocket. “We’ve got an eye out for his car, as do the state police. If he was in an accident, we’ll find him and get him help. In the meantime, Mrs. Statler, the best thing you can do is get some rest.”
She forces a smile and stands up. “Thank you. I’ll give that a try.”
She leads them to the door, remaining at the window until the headlights of their car disappear down the driveway. Taking her phone from her pocket, she checks again—no missed calls—and opens a new text message. Hello dear husband, she types, swallowing the fear. I really hate this. Can you please come home now?
Chapter 19
I log in, stretch my neck, and begin my review.
Misery, by Stephen King.
My head is still spinning.
I stumbled across a friend’s copy, and while I planned to skim the first few pages, I read the whole thing in one sitting. I’ve noticed some reviewers are using words like deranged and lunatic to refer to Annie Wilkes, but I find that both wholly unfitting and highly insensitive. It’s clear to me that our protagonist’s suffering is the result of deep psychological wounds inflicted in childhood. As an adult, she is coping the best she can, using a variety of defense mechanisms—fixation, denial, regression—not to mention (unsuccessfully) trying to repress the anger she feels as a childless, middle-aged woman. Does she always make the best choices? Of course not. But it’s not evil that drives her, it’s anguish.
(Those interested in this topic should check out the lecture “Misery and Womanhood,” by Dr. Anne [sic] Potter, a former Columbia professor and Guggenheim fellow, available on YouTube.)
Ending was rushed. Four stars.
I post the review and push away from the computer, exhausted. I came across Annie’s lecture yesterday evening, after dinner. They’d spelled her name wrong in the description, which is why I missed it in my initial search. “Misery and Womanhood.” After seeing the title, I was looking forward to hearing her address the innumerable reasons why so many women are unhappy, but then I watched it and realized that she meant the horror novel by Stephen King, the same book Sam had been reading (how sweet). Forty-two minutes of Dr. Potter exploring Annie Wilkes’s psyche and contemplating her role as both mother and seductress—which I watched six times in a row—and my curiosity was piqued. Before I knew it, I was turning the last page at two o’clock in the morning.
Heading through the kitchen, I open the door to Agatha Lawrence’s study, taking in the clean scent of the room. I did it—I got this place in order finally. I couldn’t fall asleep after finishing the book and decided to make myself useful. At first I was simply going to put away Agatha’s papers and get rid of the boxes—be done with her for good—but before I knew it, I was sixteen miles away at two in the morning, standing in line at the twenty-four-hour Home Depot with an aching back and the supplies to fix the window myself.
You’d think I would have stopped there and gone to bed, but instead I transformed the study into a guest room with freshly laundered curtains and a single bed I dragged down from upstairs. The result is cozy chic, with a tranquil palette and the warm light of a stained-glass desk lamp I discovered in a closet.
I give the room one last look, pleased, and return to the kitchen with the mop. Wringing it out at the sink, I see today’s issue of the Daily Freeman on the table where I’d left it, the article about Sam on the front page. I was surprised when I opened the door this morning and saw his soggy and wrinkled face smiling up at me from my welcome mat. I shouldn’t have been. Of course the story is going to be of interest: local resident and beloved therapist goes missing the night of the storm. It doesn’t hurt that he’s good-looking, and the fact that he and his new wife are relative newlyweds certainly ups the intrigue. Enough, at least, for an editor at the Daily Freeman to assign the story to young and intrepid Harriet Eager, with a journalism degree and a last name that fits, tasked with reporting the bad news that Sam hasn’t been seen in two days.
Dr. Sam Statler was reported missing two nights ago by his wife when he did not return home from work. Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Dr. Statler should contact reporter Harriet Eager at [email protected].
He looks exceptionally handsome in the phot
ograph they printed alongside Harriet’s story, in a smart blue suit with a tie that brings out his eyes. I imagine it was Annie who took it, sitting on the front porch of their house at 119 Albemarle Road. Four bedrooms on six acres with a newly renovated chef’s kitchen and a first-floor master, cost them $835,000. I found the real estate listing—photos and all—after Harriet’s editor proved himself eager to print Sam’s home address, where his new wife Annie is living alone now, no man around to protect her.
I take the scissors from the drawer and take a seat at the kitchen table, wondering what Dr. Annie Marie Potter would think if she knew about the overdue credit card bills her missing husband appears to have been hiding from her. Why else would he keep them stashed in his office, inside the pages of a novel, if not to keep them from her? I’ve been going through the line items, and I’m dumbfounded at what he was willing to spend on things.
Truth be told, I’m more than a little hurt that Sam didn’t tell me about his situation. That’s absurd, I know. Being trapped under $120,000 of debt is far too unhappy a topic for happy hour, but I could have helped him process what got him into this situation and devise a plan to tackle it. (On the other hand, I also have to admit to feeling a smidge better about things. Sam’s coldness these last few weeks wasn’t because of anything I did. He was worried about the debt!)
I’ve just finished cutting out the article when a flash of color passes by the window. I rise from my chair for a look. It’s the Pigeon. I consider slipping into the bathroom and waiting for her to leave, but it’s too late. She’s waving at me through the window. I put the scissors away, walk calmly to the door, and fix on a smile.