Goodnight Beautiful(70)

Quirky. That’s the word Sam used to describe him, guilting Sam into staying for a drink every once in a while, asking him to help with tasks around the property—taking out the garbage and sweeping the path. Sam felt indebted, couldn’t get over his good luck.

“He let Sam design the space himself,” Annie says to Franklin. “Sam being Sam, this meant everything cost a fortune. That’s quite a few steps up from small-town ‘nice.’ And now I find out that he’s also been visiting Sam’s mother?”

Annie got the girl at the desk to show her his file. Albert Bitterman, fifty-one years old, started volunteering at Rushing Waters last month. Assignment: bingo night, every Wednesday and Friday. She asked around. Nobody knew him other than as the volunteer who left a lot of comments in the suggestion box. She googled his name when she got home, finding the author of a children’s book and a professor of urban planning, neither of which she guessed was a match.

“What are you suggesting, Annie?” Franklin says. “That your husband’s landlord . . . what? Killed him and disposed of his car? Let me guess. You listen to those true-crime podcasts.”

She sighs wearily.

“Ms. Potter—” Franklin heaves a sigh of his own. “I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell you this, but your husband wasn’t the man you thought he was. He hid a hundred grand in debt from you. He wasn’t visiting his mother, or paying her bills. And, oh yeah, he got power of attorney over her finances two weeks before he disappeared.” Annie’s breath catches. “Yeah, that’s right. We poked around, talked to people down at Rushing Waters, and we know that part too. You may like to paint us as the bumbling cops who can’t tie their own shoes, but we know what we’re doing. Bottom line, Annie: he’s a pathological liar, and you’re the wife, left behind, grasping at straws.” She can hear his chair squeaking. “And remember, Annie. You’re an attractive woman with a lot of good years ahead of you. Like I tell my daughters, don’t waste your time on the wrong guy.”

“Thank you, Franklin. That’s a good reminder.” She hangs up, holds her breath for a long moment, and then the rage rises, too much for her to contain. She screams as loud as she can and throws her phone across the room. It bounces off the sofa cushions and lands on the floor with a crack. She’s afraid to look, but she does; the bottom half of her screen is shattered. She drops to the couch, rests her head in her hands, and laughs. “Well, this is a very bad day,” she whispers.

Franklin Sheehy is not wrong, you know. It’s Sam’s voice, from the opposite couch.

“Go fuck yourself,” she whispers.

Okay, but it’s true that you’re grasping at straws.

“You think?” she snaps. “You think that was grasping at straws, Sam? Well, wait until you see this.” She takes the phone from the floor and squints through the broken glass, searching Google for a directory of phone numbers at the Daily Freeman.

“Harriet Eager,” she says, answering on the first ring.

“It’s Annie Potter. I need to ask you a question.”

“Okay,” Harriet says.

“The other day, you said that you’d received a few tips claiming that Sam was having an affair with a patient. Can you tell me who sent them?” Something about hearing this—she hasn’t been able to shake it.

“Annie, don’t worry about that,” Harriet says. “It was some lunatic with nothing else—”

Annie cuts her off. “Do you still have the email?”

“No, sorry. I delete that stuff.”

“Okay, thanks,” she manages before hanging up. She presses her eyes with the heels of her hands. That’s it. That’s all I can do.

Her phone beeps with a message.

Can’t wait. In car yet?

It’s Maddie. Annie checks the time. It’ll be here in a half hour.

She hits send and stands up. In the kitchen, she finds her passport and ticket on the counter and puts them in her purse.

When her phone rings a moment later, she can’t make out the name under the broken glass. She assumes it’s Maddie, but it’s not. It’s Harriet Eager, calling back.

“You got a second?”

“Yes,” Annie says, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“A colleague of mine overhead our conversation,” Harriet says. “Turns out she did follow-up on the tip about the alleged patient your husband ran off with. I figured you’d want to know.”

“And?”

“And it was definitely false,” Harriet says.

“How do you know that?”

“The reporter asked at the university, where this fantasy patient was supposedly a student, and there wasn’t anyone who matched her description.”

“A student at the university?” Annie feels a twinge of dread. “What was the description?”

“What does it matter?” Harriet says. “It was a bum tip.”

“Please, what was the description?”

“Hang on,” Harriet sighs. “Let me ask.”





Chapter 51




I tug down my sweatshirt and smooth back my hair. With a deep breath, I open the door.

“Good morning, Albert,” Dr. Statler says from his chair, hands folded on his lap.