“So how did you find it?”
“The place was vandalized recently, and the manager was going through security footage. Saw the car driving in, the night of the storm, and recognized it from the news.”
Annie snaps her head at Sheehy. “Is there footage of him?”
Sheehy holds her gaze for a moment. “Come with me.”
She follows him toward a building that resembles a wooden shed. Inside is a metal desk with three television monitors and empty Styrofoam coffee cups scattered on top. A cop is sitting in a tattered rolling desk chair in the corner, checking his phone. Seeing Sheehy, he quickly clicks off the screen and drops the phone into his chest pocket. “Chief.”
“This is Dr. Statler’s wife,” Sheehy says. “I want you to show her the footage.”
The cop slides to the desk, turns a monitor so it’s facing Annie. She sees a frozen image of a blurry car, which starts to move when the cop hits the keyboard. It’s Sam’s Lexus driving into unit 12. A figure appears on the screen a few moments later. A man. He has his back to the camera as he slides the door shut and then takes an umbrella from under his arm and opens it. His face is obstructed by the umbrella when he turns to the camera, and the cop freezes the video. “This is the best we got,” the cop says.
“Can you make it any bigger?” Annie asks. The cop zooms in and then stands up to offer Annie the chair. She sits and leans close to the screen, her heart aching as she recognizes the jacket. A Brooks Brothers’ Madison Fit Wool Reserve Blazer in classic navy. The one she picked out for him, the one he kept at his office.
“Can you confirm that’s your husband?” Sheehy says. She nods, unable to speak.
Sheehy heaves a heavy sigh. “Sorry, Annie. I know this isn’t easy.”
The room feels claustrophobic. “Can you take me home?”
“Of course. Let me tell my sergeant.”
She stands up and walks outside. Two men in nylon jackets are standing near the gate, lighting their cigarettes from a shared match. “I knew this guy’s old man,” one says as she passes. “Guess it’s true what they say. Like father, like son.”
Chapter 45
Something buzzes in Sam’s ear, and he opens his eyes.
It’s pitch-black and cold.
He’s on all fours, in the middle of the street, just over the bridge. He can see Sidney Pigeon’s house, a hundred feet away. A light is on upstairs, and a figure is standing at the window. Squinting, Sam makes out bushy brown curls under a baseball hat. The window is open, and he’s waving at Sam. “You see me!” Sam yells, waving back, elated. “It’s me! Sam Statler!” He starts cackling, waiting for the kid to rush from the window and down the stairs, where he’ll spring into Sidney’s living room and find an adult to call 911. But the kid isn’t doing that. Instead, he keeps waving, and suddenly Sam realizes he’s got it wrong. The kid isn’t gesturing to him; he doesn’t even see him. He is clearing smoke from the joint in his hand and then he’s closing the window, turning off the light, and vanishing.
Sam rolls onto his back, tasting the sour tang of blood in his mouth. Headlights are approaching the hill; a car is coming. It’s going to be Sidney, on her way back from the gym. She’s going to spring from her minivan and ask him what on earth he’s doing on the pavement in weather like this . . .
The moths come at him again, and he opens his eyes, the bile rising in his gut, as he remembers the kick to his face and realizes he’s not outside. He’s back in the house, locked inside the room. He pulls himself up to sit and feels along the wall until he reaches the door. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he croaks. His throat is sore and his mouth is killing him; he reaches up to his cheek and discovers a deep gash. “It’s time to change my clothes and give me a shave, Albert. You don’t want me to call Home Health Angels and report you for violating the first tenet in the employee fucking handbook—‘When you look good, you feel good!’ Do you, you deranged little shit?”
At last his fingers find the light switch. The brightness blinds him momentarily, but then he shakes off the fog, taking in the state of his clothes, the walls around him, the stacks of boxes near his feet.
He was wrong. He’s not in the room. He’s in the closet.
There’s a door within arm’s reach, and he leans forward for the knob. It opens, casting light onto the bed with the patchwork quilt, his chair. Sam sits back. This is the closet in his room. He takes a closer look at the boxes, two dozen at least, neatly stacked against the wall, “Agatha Lawrence” written in neat script across each of them.