I walk slowly toward him and take the paper from his hand.
“I’ve given you what I know of the patient’s history, a list of presenting problems, and my best guess at a diagnosis. I’d like you to review my work.”
“Review your work,” I repeat, guarded, sure this is some kind of mean prank. “Why?”
He hesitates a moment and then drops his pen and folds his hands on his lap. “All that listening you did at the vent paid off, Albert. I read through the notes you made on my clients, in that purple binder of yours. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. You have a mind for this work.”
“I do?”
“Yes. I’m impressed. And while I’ll eventually want to discuss some of the other things I found in those binders, I’d first like your help with this.” He nods at the paper in my hands. “It’s an old case—it’s been plaguing me for a while. I could use your help, if you don’t mind.”
I scan his notes. “I don’t mind at all,” I mutter. “In fact, I’m honored.”
“Good. And I’d like dinner soon, as well. That Salisbury steak, if you wouldn’t mind. And please, Albert, proper silverware this time.”
“Yes, Sam. Whatever you want.”
“Thanks, and I’d prefer you address me properly.” He picks up his pen. “It’s Dr. Statler.”
I nod and turn toward the door, chastened. “Of course. I’ll prepare your meal and then get right to work.”
Chapter 47
“Why would a guy text his wife that he’s coming home and then stash his car in a storage unit?” Annie says into the phone. She’s sitting on the floor of Margaret’s room, her back against the wall, drinking from a bottle of Miller High Life. This is what she’s been reduced to. Not yet ten a.m., drinking a warm beer she stole from a nursing home dining hall, asking Siri to explain why her husband texted her and then stashed his car at the Sav-Mor Storage facility on route 9, ten minutes from his office.
“I found this on the web for why would a guy text his wife that he’s coming home and then stash his car in a storage unit.”
Annie scrolls through the results.
How to prepare your car for long-term storage at Edmunds.
What is your ex from hell story (and how not to take the bait when he calls!)?
This last one posted two years ago, on the blog of a woman named Misty.
Annie sips her beer, wondering what Misty might have to say. Maybe it’s unanimous. Maybe, like Franklin Sheehy, Misty thinks Sam texted her and then stashed his car because Sam’s the type of guy who disappears when the going gets tough, confirming that the apple does not, in fact, fall far from the tree. And maybe Misty will also echo the other opinion Franklin Sheehy shared in the newspaper this morning: there’s not much more the police can do.
“This shows some planning, and is clearly the work of a cunning mind,” said Chief of Police Franklin Sheehy. “Not much left to surmise other than that Sam Statler doesn’t want to be found.”
She’s taking a second pass through the list of results when the phone rings in her hand. It’s Dr. Elisabeth Mitchell, her dean.
“I got your message, Annie. Is everything okay?”
“I’ve been thinking about your offer to take time off,” Annie says. “And I’d like to accept it.”
Dr. Mitchell is silent a moment. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, Annie. When would you like it to start?”
“Immediately?” Annie suggests. “I’ve sent a few emails, asking others in the department if they can take over, and I’m hoping—”
“Don’t worry about your class,” Dr. Mitchell says. “I’ll teach it myself. And we can resume your fellowship when you’re back.”
Annie thanks her and hangs up, knowing it’s unlikely she’s coming back. For what? A life in Chestnut Hill, alone in that house? Before she can second-guess her decision, she opens her email, pulling up the message that arrived from her aunt and uncle late last night.
We’ve reserved you a plane ticket to Paris, her uncle wrote. The flight leaves in two days, giving you time to wrap things up. Maddie will pick you up and bring you to the house. The return is open ended. Just say the word, and we’ll buy it.
Thank you, Annie types. I’d like to come.
She hits send and polishes off the last of the beer as the door opens. She expects it to be Margaret, returning from getting her hair done by the stylist who comes every week, but it’s Josephine, carrying a basket of Margaret’s clean laundry. “Annie,” she says, seeing Annie on the floor, a beer bottle at her feet. “What are you doing?”
“Living my best life,” Annie says.
Josephine chuckles. “Good for you.” She flashes the laundry basket. “I was going to put these away, but I can come back.”
“I’ll do it,” Annie says, standing up. “I could use the distraction.”