（Those interested in this topic should check out the lecture “Misery and Womanhood,” by Dr. Anne [sic] Potter, a former Columbia professor and Guggenheim fellow, available on YouTube.）
Ending was rushed. Four stars.
I post the review and push away from the computer, exhausted. I came across Annie’s lecture yesterday evening, after dinner. They’d spelled her name wrong in the description, which is why I missed it in my initial search. “Misery and Womanhood.” After seeing the title, I was looking forward to hearing her address the innumerable reasons why so many women are unhappy, but then I watched it and realized that she meant the horror novel by Stephen King, the same book Sam had been reading （how sweet）。 Forty-two minutes of Dr. Potter exploring Annie Wilkes’s psyche and contemplating her role as both mother and seductress—which I watched six times in a row—and my curiosity was piqued. Before I knew it, I was turning the last page at two o’clock in the morning.
Heading through the kitchen, I open the door to Agatha Lawrence’s study, taking in the clean scent of the room. I did it—I got this place in order finally. I couldn’t fall asleep after finishing the book and decided to make myself useful. At first I was simply going to put away Agatha’s papers and get rid of the boxes—be done with her for good—but before I knew it, I was sixteen miles away at two in the morning, standing in line at the twenty-four-hour Home Depot with an aching back and the supplies to fix the window myself.
You’d think I would have stopped there and gone to bed, but instead I transformed the study into a guest room with freshly laundered curtains and a single bed I dragged down from upstairs. The result is cozy chic, with a tranquil palette and the warm light of a stained-glass desk lamp I discovered in a closet.
I give the room one last look, pleased, and return to the kitchen with the mop. Wringing it out at the sink, I see today’s issue of the Daily Freeman on the table where I’d left it, the article about Sam on the front page. I was surprised when I opened the door this morning and saw his soggy and wrinkled face smiling up at me from my welcome mat. I shouldn’t have been. Of course the story is going to be of interest: local resident and beloved therapist goes missing the night of the storm. It doesn’t hurt that he’s good-looking, and the fact that he and his new wife are relative newlyweds certainly ups the intrigue. Enough, at least, for an editor at the Daily Freeman to assign the story to young and intrepid Harriet Eager, with a journalism degree and a last name that fits, tasked with reporting the bad news that Sam hasn’t been seen in two days.
Dr. Sam Statler was reported missing two nights ago by his wife when he did not return home from work. Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Dr. Statler should contact reporter Harriet Eager at [email protected].
He looks exceptionally handsome in the photograph they printed alongside Harriet’s story, in a smart blue suit with a tie that brings out his eyes. I imagine it was Annie who took it, sitting on the front porch of their house at 119 Albemarle Road. Four bedrooms on six acres with a newly renovated chef’s kitchen and a first-floor master, cost them $835,000. I found the real estate listing—photos and all—after Harriet’s editor proved himself eager to print Sam’s home address, where his new wife Annie is living alone now, no man around to protect her.
I take the scissors from the drawer and take a seat at the kitchen table, wondering what Dr. Annie Marie Potter would think if she knew about the overdue credit card bills her missing husband appears to have been hiding from her. Why else would he keep them stashed in his office, inside the pages of a novel, if not to keep them from her? I’ve been going through the line items, and I’m dumbfounded at what he was willing to spend on things.
Truth be told, I’m more than a little hurt that Sam didn’t tell me about his situation. That’s absurd, I know. Being trapped under $120,000 of debt is far too unhappy a topic for happy hour, but I could have helped him process what got him into this situation and devise a plan to tackle it. （On the other hand, I also have to admit to feeling a smidge better about things. Sam’s coldness these last few weeks wasn’t because of anything I did. He was worried about the debt!）
I’ve just finished cutting out the article when a flash of color passes by the window. I rise from my chair for a look. It’s the Pigeon. I consider slipping into the bathroom and waiting for her to leave, but it’s too late. She’s waving at me through the window. I put the scissors away, walk calmly to the door, and fix on a smile.