My head throbs as I ease myself out of the bed, nauseous, a vague memory of downing both of the Gildas rather quickly. And then I must have gone to the kitchen for the pitcher and brought it up here, drinking the whole thing and passing out. I take Agatha Lawrence’s robe from the hook behind the door and keep a hand on the wall for balance as I hunt for Advil in the bathroom medicine cabinet and swallow four with a palmful of water. I stare at myself in the mirror—noticing the new strands of gray—wishing I could call Linda and tell her what happened last night, how badly Sam hurt my feelings. But of course I can’t. We haven’t spoken since I left the city, and I can’t pick up the phone and start complaining about a man she’s never met. She’ll tell me what I already know to be true: it was an asinine decision to uproot my life and move here, believing I could start over and actually be happy. I hardly need her to tell me what a fool I’ve been.
I walk to the window on shaky legs. Thick branches litter the front yard and the sign—DR. SAM STATLER, PSYCHOLOGIST—that I installed before Sam opened his practice downstairs is on its side in the street. And then I notice something else. Sam’s car isn’t here.
I feel a chill run through me as I hurry out of the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen. When I open the door to Agatha Lawrence’s study, I’m hit with a blast of cold air. The floor is wet, and shards of glass litter the floor. The window blew out in the storm. I rush to the corner and push aside the happy-face rug, and before I even put my ear to the vent, I can sense the emptiness downstairs.
I stand and run for the hallway, barely making it to the toilet in time to empty last night’s pitcher of pear martinis into the bowl, sure beyond doubt that something is terribly wrong.
*
A few hours later, I’m sitting in Sam’s office chair, staring at the clock on the floor near the sofa and listening to Sam’s buzzer sound for the third time. The Mumble Twins are outside, here for their twelve o’clock appointment. They wait another ninety-six seconds before giving up, and I picture them under an umbrella, traipsing back to their car, every right to be annoyed that Sam didn’t call them to cancel.
The wind blows hard against the floor-to-ceiling window offering a view of the back lawn, and the woods beyond. I hear the car engine disappear down the hill, picturing the first time I walked through those woods, the week I moved in to the Lawrence House. The sun was shining, and I drifted alone among the trees, using a garden machete I’d picked up at Hoyt’s Hardware to clear my way, looking back at the grandeur of the house, unable to believe something so nice could be mine.
Another wave of nausea rises, and I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the credit card bills in my hands. Nine in all, totaling more than $120,000, hidden down here, in Sam’s desk drawer, stuck between the pages of the Stephen King novel he was reading on the porch a few weeks ago.
He lied. When we met, he told me he was financially secure—that he’d never had trouble paying his bills or covering his rent. And now I don’t know what to believe.
Of course, who am I to cast stones? It’s not like I can claim to have been honest with him one hundred percent of the time. In fact, the proof of my lies is upstairs, in the purple binder in my library, where I keep my lists, including my most shameful one.
Things I’ve Lied to Sam About: In Order of Significance
Our meeting was not a chance encounter. I knew exactly who he was, the day that fate brought us together. I’d read every paper he’d written, watched the lectures he gave on the intersections of mental health and childhood trauma. I was so taken by him that I—
The phone rings in my lap, startling me, and I check the caller ID. It’s a number I don’t recognize—some telemarketer or survey taker, probably. Someone who’s not going to understand that I’m not in the mood to talk.
“Yes, hello,” I say, curt.
“Oh good, you’re there.” It’s a woman’s voice, relieved. “I’m sorry to bother you, but is Sam there?”
“Sam?” I grip the phone and sit up straight. “Who is this?”
“It’s Annie,” the woman says. “Sam’s wife.”
Part II
Chapter 17
“Annie.” I stand up, the stack of bills and the book thudding to the floor. It’s her, his wife. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” she says. “Sam didn’t come home last night, and I’m worried. I found your number on the lease you and he signed. Was he downstairs in his office this morning?”