Goodnight Beautiful(39)

Gently picks up the phone and presses a button. “You hear from your husband yet?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

“Hello, Chief,” he says into the phone, adding some heft to his voice. “That doctor’s wife is here. She wants to talk to you.” He nods twice and hangs up. “Last door on the right.”

Franklin Sheehy is sitting behind his desk, his sleeves rolled up, the buttons of his shirt straining against his stomach. “Come right in, Mrs. Statler,” he says, waving her inside.

“It’s Potter,” she corrects him.

“Sorry, I keep forgetting. Want some coffee? It’s not the fancy stuff you’re probably used to, but it’s hot.”

“I’d do a line of coffee grounds if you offered,” Annie says. “I’ve hardly slept in three days.”

Sheehy presses a button on the desk phone. “Two coffees, Gently,” he says. “Milk and sugar on the side.” He hangs up. “He hates when I do that.”

“I brought you a few more photographs of Sam,” Annie says, digging in her bag for them. She slides them across the desk—three photos, taken the day they were married in their new backyard by a local yoga instructor. Maddie was on FaceTime, serving as Annie’s maid of honor from the phone screen, propped on a branch of the tree they stood under. Annie had printed these photos at the CVS and given them to Sam, suggesting he send them to his father. Instead he shoved them into a kitchen drawer and forgot about them.

“I also printed the specs for Sam’s car, his exact make and model,” she says, fighting the urge to use her nickname for the car: Jasper, the douchiest name she could think of.

She had been upstairs in their apartment, packing for the move to the prairie, when he called and told her to look out the window, like some sort of John Hughes movie. He was parked in front of a fire hydrant, his face lit up. “I bought a Lexus,” he said into the phone.

“I see that.” A Lexus 350, with leather interior and automatic ignition. He used to love doing that: standing in the living room and pressing the button, watching the car light up and the engine start. (“Look at you,” Annie said the first time she saw him do this. “Proud as a southern dad at a purity ball.”)

The door is nudged open, and John Gently enters, two paper cups of coffee balanced in his left palm, milk and sugar in the right. “Here you go, Chief,” he says, extending the cups toward them, spilling a few drops on the desk. He makes a show of pulling the door firmly shut behind him as he leaves.

Annie watches Sheehy comb through the sugar packets until he gets to the Splenda. “Is there any news at all on Sam, or his car?”

“Gently!” Sheehy yells.

The door flies open, as if he’d been standing in the hallway, listening. “Mrs. Statler would like an update on the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.” John Gently steps into the room. “We sent an APB out on the car three nights ago, immediately after you reported him missing. A silver Lexus 350 with automatic ignition and leather seating. A very nice machine. We also contacted the thruway department and area agencies with license plate readers. If he passed any of those, we can get his route of travel. We are now going through footage from public and private video cameras throughout the area. If his car’s out there, we’ll find it.”

“And if he were in an accident?” Annie asks.

Sheehy shakes his head. “Truth be told, Mrs. Statler, that’s unlikely. It’s been seventy-two hours, and there’s been no report of any accidents. My men have traveled the route from Sam’s office to your house a few times now. We would have found his car.” He offers a downcast smile, doing his best to appear sympathetic. “I know you’re worried, but rest assured we’re doing everything we can. We’ll call you the minute we hear anything. But the thing you can do, Mrs. Statler, is try to manage those nerves.”

“I’ll do my best,” she says, standing up. “And maybe in return you can try to manage my name. It’s Potter.”





Chapter 29




Sam feels the faint flutter of wings against his cheek and opens his eyes. The moths fade to black and it’s him again. Albert Bitterman, his landlord, standing at the doorway, a blue apron tied at his waist. “Hey there, heartbreaker,” Albert says, pushing a medical cart into the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Confused,” Sam says, trying to sit up. “Why am I at your house?” And why do you have a medical cart?

“I’ve told you already,” Albert says. “You had an accident.” He parks the cart at the foot of Sam’s bed and snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves. “A tree came down as you pulled out of the driveway. Lucky for you, I saw the whole thing from my porch. I ran out as quick as I could.”

“Why am I not at the hospital—”

“Seems you shattered both of your legs,” Albert says, cutting him off. “Don’t worry, though. I fixed them all up. And I’m giving you something to manage the pain.”

The idea seems strange, and yet oddly familiar—two broken legs, a steady stream of pills—but he can’t pinpoint why. “Annie,” he says. “I need to call Annie, my wife. Can I use your phone?”

But Albert ignores him and takes a bottle of pills from the pocket of his apron.