Annie nods and turns around to scan for a grown man who goes by the name of Crush. Crush Andersen, all-star linebacker for the Fighting Cornjerkers. （“I don’t even want to know,” Annie said when Sam first mentioned the name of his high school football team.） Annie met Crush at Mulligan’s, the local haunt, soon after they moved to Chestnut Hill. They were ten minutes into a plate of nachos and frozen margaritas when six guys with the same haircut walked in. There were slaps on the back and a quick round of intros—Crush, Tucky, Half-a-Deck, the entire cast of Happy Days, super-stoked to hear their old buddy Stats moved home.
One of the guys on the police force had told Crush about the APB issued for a Dr. Sam Statler, and Crush wasted no time coming to the rescue. Flyers. A Facebook page. Securing the use of the bowling alley at no charge, as long as everyone’s out by five p.m. when Family Fun Night starts. Two women in orange parkas approach the doughnut table. “Barbara said someone from the television station is going to be here,” one says, fingering the crullers. “You think it’s going to be one of those national programs?”
“Don’t be silly,” says the other. “He’s not JonBenét.”
“Annie, sweetheart, you made it!” Crush is coming toward her, arms outstretched. “How you doing?” he asks, giving her a bear hug she would have preferred to evade.
“Shitty,” she says, holding up Sam’s T-shirt. “I brought this for you. You said you wanted stinky, so . . .”
He takes it, sniffs. “Whew,” he says, drawing back. “Zander will love this.” He means the retired search-and-rescue dog someone has offered to bring.
“You’ve gone all out,” Annie says. Sam’s voice pops into her head again. What did you expect? he scoffs. I told you Crush was voted Most Likely To Spearhead the Search for Sam Statler When He Disappears in Twenty Years.
“Stats would do the same for me,” Crush says. No, I wouldn’t, Sam replies. “You sticking around?”
“No,” Annie says. “Not really my thing. But you’ll call me if anything . . .”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep you posted every step of the way.” She thanks him and heads back toward the exit, back to her car. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she drives faster than she should down Route 9, turning left up the mountain. She slows around the turns approaching their driveway, straining for a view over the guardrail and down the ridge, trying not to imagine the worst. The wind was stronger than he was expecting, he took the turn too fast . . .
The sky has turned a dark gray when she arrives home. In the living room, she turns on the light, seeing the mess. Piles of papers on the floor, books scattered about, the contents of the kitchen junk drawer strewn across the coffee table. She drops her coat on the sofa and walks into the kitchen, lacking the energy to deal with the chaos she created last night while looking for the spare key to Sam’s office. She knows he had one made. She can see it clearly: Sam flashing a heavy gold key hooked onto an orange plastic keychain reading
GARY UNGER
GARY UNGER LOCKSMITHS
It was their two-week anniversary, and Sam had arrived ten minutes late at the Parlor, complaining how he’d had a hard time extricating himself from a conversation with the lonely, eccentric owner of the Lawrence House, from whom he’d just started renting.
“Spare to my office,” Sam said. “In case of emergency.”
“Like what?” she said. “You’re trapped under a particularly big ego and can’t get up?”
But then he didn’t tell her where he put the key, and she was up until three in the morning, tearing apart the house, wondering what kind of idiot makes a key specifically designed for an emergency and then tells nobody where it is. It’s pointless. She knows that. The police told her that Sam’s landlord saw him leave, and if he’d gone back to the office, his car would have been there. But she’s too restless to do nothing.
In the kitchen she opens and then closes the refrigerator door, unsure of the last time she ate. Agitated and restless, she goes to the bedroom and considers picking up the notes she’d started for her next class, but she’s too distracted, imagining everyone at Lucky Strikes receiving their assignments and heading out with their soggy maps to search for any signs of Sam.
She climbs into bed, the letters she found last night still strewn across his pillow. They were in a box on a shelf in the closet, a short stack from Sam’s dad, typed on expensive-looking letterhead. She’d fallen asleep reading through them, each one the same basic message: Hi Sammy! I’m thinking about you all the time, son. Call any time you need! Love you, son!