Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Knew Where She Was —
By seven, I had driven past her favorite coffee shop twice.
Closed.
Her mother’s old house stood dark behind a real estate sign. I sat outside it with the engine running, remembering Emma telling me that grief made certain addresses feel like people.
Her mother had been dead eleven months.
I hadn’t thought about that when I told her Rachel shouldn’t spend Christmas alone.
At the hospital, I approached the desk too quickly.
“My wife has an appointment. Emma. She’s eight months pregnant.”
The woman behind the counter asked for her full name and date of birth.
I gave both.
Then came questions I couldn’t answer.
“What time was she expected?”
“I don’t know.”
“Which provider?”
I looked down at the paper.
The woman’s expression softened, which somehow made everything worse.
She couldn’t give me information simply because I said I was her husband. I understood that. Understanding didn’t keep my hands from shaking.
“Please,” I said. “If she’s here, tell her I’m looking for her.”
Outside, I called Emma again.
Then Rachel.
“Did she call you?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Emma. Did she say anything to you?”
“No. What happened?”
“She left.”
A pause.
“Left the house?”
“She left me a note.”
Rachel drew a breath.
“Maybe she just needs some space.”
“She’s eight months pregnant.”
“I know.”
“No,” I said, too sharply. “I don’t think any of us understood that last night.”
I ended the call before she could answer.
There was one person I hadn’t called because, on some level, I already knew what she would say.
Claire.
Emma’s closest friend. A woman who had stopped smiling at me sometime around Thanksgiving.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Is she with you?”
“Is that your first question?”
“Claire, please.”
There was a rustle, then the sound of a door closing.
“She’s safe.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Where?”
“She doesn’t want you to know yet.”
“She has a hospital appointment. Her blood pressure—”
“I know.”
Two words. Flat and certain.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
Claire went quiet.
Then she said, “You should think very carefully before you ask me that again.”
I leaned against the car.
“Let me talk to her.”
“She isn’t ready.”
“Is she at your apartment?”
“Don’t go there.”
The edge in her voice stopped me.
“This isn’t a game,” she said. “And it isn’t a test you pass by finding the right address.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“For once? What she asked.”
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Before hanging up, Claire added something that changed the shape of that morning.
“She called you three times before she called me.”
