Page 29 of Dear Wife

“I was at the Atlanta airport, boarding a flight.”

“The DL 2088, I know.”

Jeffrey told me he talked to Sabine as he was boarding his flight, but he didn’t say which one. He didn’t even mention the airline. I did a little digging.

“The flight left Atlanta at 11:30 a.m,” I say, “so boarding would have been what, a half hour earlier?”

He nods, shifting in his chair. “Yeah, eleven sounds about right. I can pull it up on my call log if you need the exact time and duration.”

I ignore his offer, turning to Ingrid instead. “In either of these conversations with Sabine, did she mention where she was going?”

Jeffrey shakes his head, but Ingrid nods. “She was on her way to the office.”

I frown. Not the answer I was expecting. “This particular Super1 is nowhere near her work. I checked with her office, and she didn’t have any showings that morning. Only a staff training later in the afternoon at the office, which she missed.”

“Oh, she had a showing, all right,” Jeffrey says, his voice thick with sarcasm and something else. Anger, for sure. Disgust, too. And more than a little pain.

Ingrid looks over with a frown.

“Sabine was coming from the hospital.” His lip curls into an ugly sneer. “Her lover told me she dropped by for a little conjugal visit.”

I lean back in my chair. By now I know about the affair. Dr. McAdams already told me, tripping all over himself in his hurry for a face-to-face, a million questions disguised as a statement. The poor guy is desperate for answers, almost too desperate to be believable. “Well, if she was coming from the hospital, the route makes more sense. She could have stopped to buy herself a late lunch.”

“And then what?” Ingrid squirms on her chair, clutching her hands. “Where did she go next?”

“Well, it’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility that Sabine left on her own accord, that she got into a car with a colleague or a friend, but my gut says no. For one thing, she wouldn’t have left her cell phone behind. We found it in the car, charging in the cup holder. I was hoping one of you could identify it for us.” I pull an evidence bag from my desk drawer, holding it up to show the Samsung smartphone inside.

Ingrid releases a loud, relieved breath. “That’s not Sabine’s. Are you sure the car you found is the right one? Maybe you made a mistake.”

Again, not the answer I was expecting. The phone was found in Sabine’s locked car. Who else’s could it be? “Are you positive? We haven’t been able to check it. Not without the code.”

“One hundred percent,” Ingrid says. “Sabine has an iPhone. A white one. The newest model.”

I look to Jeffrey for confirmation. “It’s true, she does have an iPhone.” He stabs a finger at the Samsung. “Butthat’s probably her burner phone.”

Ingrid’s face whips to his. “What the hell are you talking about? Sabine doesn’t have a burner phone. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yes, Ingrid. She does. The one that for the past five months, she’s been using to talk to her lover.” Ingrid twitches, and his smile is a mix of mean and condescending. “Looks like she doesn’t quite tell you everything, does she?”

Ingrid slumps in the chair, and Jeffrey turns to me. “Dr. Trevor McAdams, Chief Obstetrician at Jefferson Regional Hospital. I believe you spoke with him last night. I’m guessing if you crack the code on that phone, every number on the call log will be his.”

“Try 8-2-6–6-3-7,” Ingrid mumbles. “It’s the one she uses for her iPhone.”

I pluck a plastic glove from the box on the sill, wriggle my hand inside, then shove it in the bag and tick in the code. The log-in dissolves into a colorful home screen with neat columns of apps. The icon for phone has a bright red number in the top right corner, twenty-three missed calls. I tap it, and they’re all from the same number, which matches the one scribbled on my pad. “You were right. It’s the number for Dr. McAdams’s cell.”

Ingrid shifts in her chair with a huff.

I reseal the bag, peel off the glove and drop both in my desk drawer. “This doesn’t explain where the iPhone is, though. We’ve put out a trace on that number, but we’re not finding anything. Looks like wherever it is, she’s turned it off. And according to her bank, the transaction at the Super1 was the last purchase she made. She hasn’t used her credit card or ATM card since. There were also no big withdrawals in the weeks before, which tells me she wasn’t planning on making a run for it.”

“Of course she wasn’t,” Ingrid says. “Sabine wouldn’t run, not without telling me.” Sometime in the past few minutes, she’s started to cry. Her face is messy with it—red eyes; mottled cheeks; swollen, dripping nose. She sniffs and swipes at it with a sleeve. “So, what now? Where do we look next?”

“Well, we’ve begun questioning Super1 staff who were working Wednesday’s shift. We’re hopeful that one of them saw something out of the ordinary, or maybe someoneout of the ordinary. I’ve also put out an APB for anyone matching Sabine’s description, which means we’ve got a lot more than just our eyes looking for her. We’re going through her bank records, her credit card usage, anything that will help us trace her movements. We’ll be interviewing her friends, her colleagues, all the people in her life—and before you ask, that includes Dr. McAdams—and we’ll be asking them the same question I’m asking you—where were you Wednesday afternoon, from 1:00 p.m. on?”

An alibi. I’m asking them for an alibi.

The two exchange a look.

Ingrid folds her arms across her chest, her expression a mixture of insult and concern. “I work at home. I’m a virtual assistant. People pay me to arrange their schedules, type up reports, handle their social media. Things like that.”

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