“It wasn’t the police who told me about the debt,” Harriet says as Annie starts toward the door.
Annie turns around. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it wasn’t the police.”
“Well, then, who was it?”
Harriet shrugs. “A tip. Some reader, emailing to say there was a rumor circulating that your husband was in serious debt. I usually ignore these things, but I decided to call Chief Sheehy. It checked out.”
“A rumor? There was no rumor. Why would someone do that?”
“CSI,” Harriet says right away. “It happens all the time. Amateur detectives, raring to pitch a theory. One guy was particularly persistent in the beginning, saying he had it on good authority that your husband had run off with a patient.” She shakes her head. “There are some serious weirdos out there.”
Annie’s head is pounding. “I have to go.” She weaves through a crowd of people waiting near the door to be seated, smack into a man entering the restaurant.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking her elbow to steady her. “How clumsy of me. Are you okay?”
He has graying hair and bright blue eyeglasses, and she doesn’t like the feel of his hand on her arm. “Yes,” she says, pulling away. “I’m fine.”
As she unlocks her car, she hears her phone ringing in her bag.
It’s Franklin Sheehy. “Good evening, Ms. Potter.” There’s a somber edge to his voice. “We need to talk. Any chance you can come down to the station?”
Chapter 43
I watch Annie talking on the phone inside her car. Poor girl, alone on her anniversary. She and Sam celebrate every week. I know because I have Sam’s appointment book filed away in my library—“Annie, anniversary drinks” jotted down each Tuesday—and I’ve been imagining how cute they looked, clinking glasses of overpriced alcohol.
“You want a table?” A young woman is eyeing me from behind the podium. She’s got tattoos up and down her arms, getting back at her parents, most likely, by defiling her own body.
“No, thank you,” I say, watching Annie pull away from the curb. “I just remembered. I have somewhere to be.”
My own car is parked illegally in the bank parking lot. I start the engine but don’t move.
I feel terrible for her.
I know that I can’t, but I wish I could tell her what a mess Sam was at happy hour yesterday. He barely seemed to be listening when I told him about my one experience playing football. It was not easy to talk about. I was seven years old and begged my mother to talk my father out of forcing me to play, but she refused. I stood in a line on the field, someone handed me the football, and the next thing I knew, a boy from my school three times my size threw me to the ground. I couldn’t breathe, and was so sure I was dying that when I did finally catch my breath, I burst into tears, right there on Sanders Field, in front of my father and half of the men of Wayne, Indiana. And what did Sam say when I finished telling him? Nothing. He just stared at the wall, looking dazed, and then, out of nowhere, he started to talk about Annie, telling me how much he loves her, and how worried he is that she’s not okay.
But she looks okay to me. A little too skinny, maybe, and those bags under her eyes suggest she might not be sleeping as well as she should—but she’s well enough to get dolled up and take herself out for a drink. That’s good news.
I pat the bag holding three cans of condensed onion soup on the passenger seat beside me and put the car into drive. Salisbury steak will cheer Sam up.
The rain winks on and off in my headlights as I follow a truck with a plumbing logo down Main Street and along the train tracks, the guy going so slow I assume he gets paid by the hour. I crack my window an inch, taking in the heady scent of wood smoke and Democrats, and turn on to Cherry Lane. Nearly every light is on at the Pigeon’s house; I’m assuming she’s lost her interest in climate change, burning all those fossil fuels. I’m approaching the bridge when I spot something in the road and slam on my brakes.
No. Please, my god, no.
I kill my engine, reach for the shopping bag on the passenger seat, and step out of the car into the cold, sharp rain. It’s Sam. In the middle of the street, his face streaked with mud, the sleeves of the sweatshirt I lent him—Smith College, one of my favorites—filthy and torn. “No, Albert,” he says, and I see that he’s crying. “Please. I’m so close.”
“Sam?” I tighten my grip on the bag as I walk toward him. “Where are you off to, Sam?”