The Abandoned Wife novel · Chapter 11 of 24

Chapter 11: The Log

Emil read the text at the kitchen counter with his coffee going cold.

"Cute truck," he said. "Honestly, it's a little hurtful."

"She was outside my building at three in the morning."

"Or she paid someone to be."

"Either way, she knows where I sleep."

"Then she knows I'm in it." He set the phone down gently, like something that might bite. "Good."

At ten his own phone rang, and the name on the screen was the nurse from Pell County.

She was the one who had asked me, three years ago, whom to call.

"I've been thinking about your note," she said, when he put her on speaker.

"About whether anybody phoned asking after the Jane Doe that first week."

"And?" he said.

"We keep a paper desk log, Doctor. You know that. The clerk hates the computer."

"I know."

"I went down to the basement this morning and pulled March."

I sat down on the floor without meaning to.

"Monday the fifteenth, nine forty-two at night," the nurse read.

"Female caller, Chicago area code. She didn't give a name, and she didn't ask for one."

"She said, quote, a woman from the State Road 46 wreck, thirties, dark hair, broken leg. Was she there."

My mouth had gone dry.

"The desk girl told her yes, a patient like that was admitted and registered as Dara Salter."

"And the caller said thank you."

"That's it?"

"She said thank you in a very pleasant voice and hung up."

There was a rustle of paper.

"The girl wrote down the callback number because the line showed it. Honestly, I'd forgotten."

"Read me the number," I said.

She did.

I knew the first three digits.

It was the number that had rung my husband's phone for seven years.

It rang every time Tom was late, and every time he wanted to share a joke she'd told him.

I did not need to look it up.

"She knew," I said. "That night."

"Who?" said the nurse.

"Never mind. Can you send me a photograph of that page?"

"I'm taking it right now. With the date stamp at the top."

"Thank you."

I hung up and looked at the ceiling.

Monday, nine forty-two.

At that hour I had been in a hospital bed with my leg on a hook.

Tom had been in a big house in Lincoln Park with a woman who had just found out where I was.

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