Silly me. I should have pegged Sam as a man who’d choose the type of woman who keeps her maiden name. Dr. Annie Marie Potter. Not Ann or Anne or Anna but Annie. （Not exactly the name a parent would give an infant daughter for whom they had high hopes. Girls named Annie dream of growing up to be airline stewardesses or home decorators showing up to color-coordinate your sweaters, not someone who is going to one day—May 6, 2008, to be exact—publish a well-reviewed article in Feminist Theory, some journal I’ve never heard of.） I figured she and I would run into each other one day, bump carts in the organic meats department at Farrell’s, where couples like Sam and Annie went to nourish their grass-fed beef habit. Not that she’d care, but I’d love the chance to tell her about myself.
I’m fifty-one and single.
I was, for twenty-five years, a certified home health aide with Home Health Angels, named employee of the month three times.
I took good care of her husband since he moved in downstairs, three months ago. I gave him everything he asked for, in fact—nontoxic paint, heated floors—you’d think he would have appreciated me more.
Who knows, maybe Annie and I will still meet. Maybe she’ll stop by tomorrow to commiserate about Sam’s disappearance, and I’ll tell her how sorry I am to hear that she lost both her parents when she was eighteen.
Their names were Archie and Abigail Potter, and their double obituary appeared in the York County Coast Star out of Kennebunkport, Maine, June 12, 1997. Devoted husband Archie and loving wife and mother Abigail were killed in a helicopter crash over the Hudson River on the afternoon of their twentieth wedding anniversary, survived by an eighteen-year-old daughter.
What a story. Archie had a lifelong fear of flying, which Abigail was determined to help him confront. She booked a surprise thirty-minute private helicopter ride from a launch in New York City, only for the engine to fail, killing both in a fiery crash into the river.
The clock on the desk chimes—one p.m. already. Where has the day gone? I remove my glasses and rub my eyes, my hangover easing into a dull headache. I turn off the computer monitor and leave the library, sliding the pocket doors closed behind me. Upstairs in my bedroom, I pause at the window and take the binoculars from their hook to check in on the Pigeon. Her car’s in the driveway, and I picture her inside, drinking coffee from an oversize mug emblazoned with the phrase THIS IS REALLY WINE. I replace the binoculars and turn away as a car appears on the hill. It passes her house, crosses the bridge, and turns into my driveway. I close the curtains and go to the closet to change out of my robe.
The police are here.
*
I open the front door as a man steps from the driver’s seat of the police cruiser.
“Good afternoon,” he calls as he approaches the porch. “Hoping to speak to the owner of the Lawrence House.”
“That’s me,” I say.
“Franklin Sheehy.” He flashes his badge. “Chief of police.”
“I know,” I say. “I saw you on television, warning everyone about the storm.”
“Would have been nice if more of them had listened,” he says as a young man approaches from behind. He’s tall and baby-faced, no older than twenty-five. “This is officer John Gently. We’re sorry to disturb you, but—”
“Is this about Dr. Statler?” I say.
“You’ve heard?”
“Yes, his wife called earlier today. She sounded worried.”
A cold wind lifts the collar of Sheehy’s nylon police jacket. “Mind if we come inside?”
“Not if you don’t mind removing your shoes,” I say. “I just mopped the floors.”
“Sure thing.” Sheehy steps into the foyer and pauses to remove a pair of black boots, exactly the sensible footwear you’d expect a police chief to wear. “Just you here?”
“Just me,” I say.
He walks into the living room and looks around. “Big place for one person.”
“Seven years in the city,” I say. “I was craving some space.”
“New York?”
“No, Albany. I think New York is vile.”
“Got a nephew at SUNY Albany. Nice place.”
“So, about Dr. Statler,” I nudge, reminding him we’re here to talk about Sam, not trade TripAdvisor reviews on major US cities. “Is there reason to worry?”
“His wife thinks so,” Sheehy says, bringing his focus to me. “She was expecting him home last night, and he never appeared. Understandably upset.” He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a notebook and a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, not the style I would have chosen for him. “I’ve been told he’s been renting an office from you, downstairs.”