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.