“Did you hear something” she asks, terrified.
“No, ma’am. Checking in.” A kid with a baby face appears behind him. “This is John Gently.” Annie recognizes his name; he’s the officer who took her statement last night. “Got a few minutes?”
“Yes, come in.” She ushers them inside, into the living room.
“We just came from the Lawrence House,” Franklin Sheehy says. “Both the owner and the neighbor across the street saw your husband leave the office around five p.m. I’m assuming you’ve heard nothing from him?”
“No, nothing,” she says, as the cops sit on the couch opposite her. “I’ve been calling his phone, but it’s dead.”
“How do you know it’s dead?” Sheehy asks.
“It goes right to voice mail.”
“What I mean is, how do you know he didn’t intentionally turn it off?”
She frowns. “Because why would he do that?”
Sheehy ignores the question and takes a notebook and reading glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I know you went through things with Officer Gently, but mind if I get some additional background?”
“Of course,” she says.
“Any problems we should know about?” Sheehy asks. “Gambling, drinking?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“How’s his mood been?”
She hesitates. “Fine,” she says. “Mostly. He’s been a little distracted.”
“He talk to you about it?”
“No,” she says. “But we’re going through a big transition. Moving here, taking care of Sam’s mother. It’s a lot.”
Sheehy shakes his head and tsks. “Heard about Margaret. Real shame. She never was the same after Ted left for that girl.” He clasps his hands. “I hate to ask, but any chance your husband might have a little something on the side himself?”
“No,” Annie says. “Nothing on the side.”
“How do you know?”
The two men are watching her. “Because I know my husband, and he wouldn’t do that.”
John Gently laughs loudly. “Sorry,” he says, clapping a hand to his mouth and glancing at Sheehy, embarrassed. “It’s just . . . Stats and I went to the same high school, years apart. The guy’s a legend.”
Annie gives the kid a cursory glance. “Yes, well, that was twenty years ago. Sam’s evolved.” She turns back to Sheehy. “Were you able to get into my husband’s office?”
“No, unfortunately. You were right. Landlord doesn’t have a key.”
“I know,” she says, confused. “But can’t you get in some other way?”
“No, ma’am,” Sheehy says. “The evidence required to enter someone’s office needs to be arguable, which I’m afraid is not the case here.”
“Arguable?” Annie says. “What does that mean?”
“Gently?”
“It means,” he says, sitting up straighter, “that if Chief Sheehy were to take a letter requesting a search warrant to the district attorney and ask her to show up in Judge Allison’s courtroom when all the chief has is a guy who didn’t come home from work, nobody’s going to be happy.”
“Bingo,” Sheehy says.
“Didn’t come home from work?” Annie says. “I hope you’re not suggesting there’s any chance that Sam . . . left?” She’s doing her best to stay composed. “He drove home in a terrible storm. He was probably in an accident.”
Sheehy and Gently exchange a look, and then Sheehy nods and returns the notebook to his pocket. “We’ve got an eye out for his car, as do the state police. If he was in an accident, we’ll find him and get him help. In the meantime, Mrs. Statler, the best thing you can do is get some rest.”
She forces a smile and stands up. “Thank you. I’ll give that a try.”
She leads them to the door, remaining at the window until the headlights of their car disappear down the driveway. Taking her phone from her pocket, she checks again—no missed calls—and opens a new text message. Hello dear husband, she types, swallowing the fear. I really hate this. Can you please come home now?
Chapter 19
I log in, stretch my neck, and begin my review.
Misery, by Stephen King.
My head is still spinning.
I stumbled across a friend’s copy, and while I planned to skim the first few pages, I read the whole thing in one sitting. I’ve noticed some reviewers are using words like deranged and lunatic to refer to Annie Wilkes, but I find that both wholly unfitting and highly insensitive. It’s clear to me that our protagonist’s suffering is the result of deep psychological wounds inflicted in childhood. As an adult, she is coping the best she can, using a variety of defense mechanisms—fixation, denial, regression—not to mention （unsuccessfully） trying to repress the anger she feels as a childless, middle-aged woman. Does she always make the best choices? Of course not. But it’s not evil that drives her, it’s anguish.