Two Days Before Our Divorce Was Final, He Wrecked His Car, and the Hospital Called His Wife and Not the Fiancée He Left Me For novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Glove Box

Will repeats what Dean said in the rig, a tow yard calls the joint owner, and Claire finds a beneficiary form naming Mandy, signed on her birthday and never submitted.

"Now," I said.

Will walked me across the garage to his truck and opened the passenger door.

He didn't start the engine.

He sat with both hands on the wheel, looking at the concrete wall.

"I'm not supposed to repeat what a patient says in the rig," he said.

"Okay."

"But you're his legal decision-maker until Monday morning, so I'm using the loophole."

That almost made me laugh.

Will Barrett had lived on the other side of my wall for three years.

He was the man who shoveled my half of the front walk before I woke up and pretended he hadn't.

He was also the man who, when Dean and I used to fight, turned his television up so we'd know he couldn't hear.

"I knew the name off his license," Will said. "I knew the face before that. I said good morning to him for three years."

"I know."

"I worked him like anyone else. I want you to know that. I did everything right."

"I never thought you wouldn't."

He nodded, still not looking at me.

"He was in and out. He said, 'Call Claire.' Then a minute later, 'Call Claire,' same voice."

"What voice?"

"Like he was asking where the remote was."

I didn't say anything.

"Once he said Mandy. Just the name, no 'call.' Then he stopped talking."

The garage was very quiet.

A car alarm chirped somewhere on the third level.

"That's not a compliment," I said.

"No."

"That's a habit."

Will turned his head and finally looked at me.

He had gray eyes and a nose that had been broken by a drunk man on a Fourth of July, and he looked more tired than I'd ever seen him.

"That's how I took it," he said.

My phone buzzed in my lap.

It was a number I didn't know, a man with a voice.

"This Claire Colvin? Hoosier Tow and Recovery. We've got an Audi off Thirty-Eighth, registered to you and a Dean."

"It's his car," I said. "The divorce gave it to him."

"Divorce ain't final, ma'am. Title says you. Officer says you're the contact. After noon it's forty-five a day, and I can't release his stuff to nobody but an owner with ID."

I looked at Will.

He was already turning the key.

The lot was out past the airport, a field of gravel and wrecks under a sky the color of dishwater.

The man in the trailer office slid a clipboard across the counter without looking up.

"Row nine. Don't touch the glass, it's still in the seats."

The Audi sat in row nine with its whole front end folded.

The driver's door had been cut off with a saw.

I stood looking at it for longer than I'd planned.

Will stood a step behind me, and when I moved onto the ice-slick gravel his hand settled at the small of my back and stayed there.

It was a very warm hand.

I noticed that.

I noticed that I wasn't moving away from it.

"His laptop bag," I said, to the car. "Tell him it's all I'm taking."

"Sure."

I leaned in through the open frame, past the glass, and found the bag on the back seat.

Then the glove box.

I don't know why I opened it.

I think it was the only part of the car that looked normal.

The latch stuck.

My fingers weren't working, and I fumbled it twice.

Will's hand came down over mine.

"Let me."

"No," I said. "I've got it."

He took his hand away immediately.

The latch gave.

Inside were the registration, a tire gauge, and a Dunkin' receipt for two medium hazelnut coffees.

Under those lay a sheet of white paper folded in thirds.

I opened it.

It was a form with the Quade Home Lending logo at the top, the firm Dean worked for, which belonged to Mandy's father.

Employee Change of Beneficiary and Emergency Contact.

The old entry was typed in: Claire M. Colvin, spouse.

Under it, in Dean's blocky ballpoint, the new one.

Primary beneficiary: Amanda J. Quade, fiancée.

Emergency contact: Amanda J. Quade.

Both lines were signed.

There was no HR stamp and no initials from anyone.

It had never been turned in.

I looked at the date by his signature.

October 24.

Three weeks ago, to the day.

It was my birthday.

That night he had sent me a text that said, Hope it's a good one.

And that morning, before he sent it, he had sat down with a pen and finished everything that mattered to him.

Everything except the one thing that would have made me stop being the first name on every form he owned.

"Claire?" Will said.

I folded the page back along its old creases and put it in my coat, against my ribs.

"Not yet," I said. "I'm not telling anybody what's on this."

"Okay."

"Not even you."

"I didn't ask."

"I know," I said. "That's why I let you drive."

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