Chapter 3 The Gift Box in the Sunken Car

At dawn, Mary drove into a small town downstream.

She paid cash for a motel room and handed me the key card and a bag of new clothes.

"I'll give the photos to the police as soon as I get back."

"Drive safely."

Mary hugged me, then drove away in the tow truck. I closed the curtains and removed the bandage from my palm. The cut had stopped bleeding.

The television was showing news from the river. Police cars and searchlights surrounded the broken guardrail. A reporter said the missing driver had not been found.

I turned off the television and lay down. Water pipes rattled in the next room, and trucks kept passing outside. No one here knew Ella. No one knew I was pregnant.

I slept for less than two hours.

After I woke, I bought a prepaid phone from the corner store and copied down two apartment listings from a bulletin board. On my way back to the motel, I passed a neighborhood elementary school with a notice on the door advertising for substitute teachers.

I saved the number in my new phone. Once the cut on my palm healed, I would find a home, find a job, and have my baby.

The recovery operation at the river continued without stopping.

At noon, a crane lifted the car from the water. Its windows were shattered, and mud and weeds covered the body.

Jacob stood behind the police tape and watched the car settle onto the riverbank.

"No one was inside," he said. "Ella must have made it to shore."

An officer asked when he had last seen me.

"At the dinner last night."

"Did she say anything before she left?"

Jacob opened his mouth. All he could remember was holding his secret son and saying I had failed to give him a child in four years. Then he had kissed Clara in front of me.

He took out his phone and checked his call history. The day before our anniversary, I had called him six times in a row. He hadn't answered the first five. The sixth call had lasted only a few seconds.

Jacob called my number again. River water kept pouring from the car doors while a recorded message told him the call could not be completed.

An officer pried open the driver's door. Water flooded out, carrying shards of glass to Jacob's feet.

Dark red blood stained the steering wheel and the seat.

Jacob stopped speaking.

He crossed the police tape and reached for the driver's seat. An officer stopped him, but he kept staring at the blood on the steering wheel.

"She was hurt."

"We're collecting samples," the officer said. "Please don't disturb the scene."

Jacob stepped back. His heel sank into the mud, and he lost his balance and dropped to one knee.

An officer picked up my wedding ring beside the seat and placed it in a clear evidence bag.

Jacob reached for it, but the officer blocked his hand.

"That's her ring." His voice was hoarse. "She always wore it. She never took it off."

Clara came to his side. "Finding her ring in the car doesn't mean Ella was in it."

Jacob turned toward her.

"Shut up."

Clara went pale and retreated behind the police tape.

The divers continued searching along the river. Jacob refused to leave. Mud covered his suit, and wine from the previous night still stained his shirt cuff.

The search team walked the riverbank and found no footprints, clothes, or other sign that I had climbed out.

Jacob asked three times. Each time, the answer was the same: they had not found me.

That afternoon, the police removed my phone and purse from the car. Water had ruined the phone, and its screen was completely black.

Jacob took the purse. The zipper was jammed. He tore it open, revealing lipstick, keys, and tissues ruined by the river.

He searched so frantically that a key cut his finger. Blood fell onto the soaked tissues, but he didn't stop.

A white gift box lay at the bottom.

His name was written on it.

Jacob wiped it several times with his muddy hand before he could read the writing.

The box had been in my purse when I walked into the banquet hall the night before. He hadn't asked what I was carrying. He hadn't even looked at me.

The water had softened the lid. Jacob slowly lifted it by the edge.

There was no anniversary gift inside.

There was only a prenatal report, wrinkled and soaked by the river.