Chapter 4

The ambulance doors slammed shut.

My father climbed inside before anyone could stop him.

The paramedic placed an oxygen mask over my face while another attached monitors to my stomach.

The baby's heartbeat filled the ambulance.

Fast.

Uneven.

Terrifying.

"Stay with me, Claire," the paramedic said.

The mansion disappeared behind us.

Through the rear window, I saw Ethan being taken toward a police cruiser.

He did not look defeated.

He looked angry.

That frightened me more.

The pain came again.

My whole body tightened.

"Is the baby coming?"

"You're having contractions," the paramedic answered. "We need to determine why you're bleeding."

My father held my hand.

His grip was steady.

His eyes were not.

"I should have known," he whispered.

I tried to shake my head.

"You couldn't."

"I saw you three months ago."

"Ethan was beside me."

"I saw the way you looked at him."

"You thought I was tired."

"I wanted to think you were tired."

Another contraction tore through me.

I screamed into the mask.

At the hospital, a team rushed me through double doors.

My father was stopped at the entrance to the maternity unit.

"I'm her father."

"Sir, let us stabilize her."

"I am not leaving."

A nurse touched his arm.

"You can wait right here."

The doors closed between us.

Doctors cut away my clothing.

A fetal monitor was strapped around my belly.

The baby's heartbeat dropped.

Then recovered.

Then dropped again.

Dr. Hawthorne entered the room.

I went rigid.

He wore the same calm smile he had worn at every prenatal appointment.

"Claire, you're safe," he said.

"No."

He stepped closer.

"We need to examine you."

"Get away from me."

A nurse looked confused.

Dr. Hawthorne lowered his voice.

"You're experiencing another anxiety episode."

"He gave me pills."

The room became quiet.

"What pills?" the nurse asked.

"Prescription bottles. In my house. His name was on them."

Dr. Hawthorne's face changed for half a second.

Then the smile returned.

"Claire has been struggling with paranoid thoughts."

I reached for the nurse.

"Call Detective Ortiz."

Dr. Hawthorne gestured toward a syringe.

"She needs sedation."

"No!"

The baby's heartbeat dropped again.

The nurse blocked his hand.

"Doctor, she's refusing medication."

"She isn't competent to refuse."

"Who determined that?"

"I did."

The nurse stared at him.

"You're her obstetrician, not her psychiatrist."

He leaned close.

"We don't have time for arguments."

The doors opened.

My father entered with Detective Ortiz behind him.

Dr. Hawthorne stepped back.

Detective Ortiz raised her badge.

"Doctor, do not administer anything."

"This is a medical emergency."

"Then another physician can treat her."

Dr. Hawthorne removed his gloves.

"You are interfering with patient care."

My father moved between him and my bed.

"You prescribed antipsychotics to my daughter without her knowledge."

"I did no such thing."

Detective Ortiz held up a photograph of the bottle.

"Then why is your name on the label?"

He looked at it.

"Forgery."

"Convenient."

A second obstetrician arrived.

Dr. Maya Patel.

She examined the monitor, reviewed the bleeding, and ordered an ultrasound.

Dr. Hawthorne tried to remain.

Dr. Patel looked at him.

"Samuel, leave."

"This is my patient."

"Not anymore."

He turned toward the exit.

Detective Ortiz followed.

"Don't leave the building."

He paused.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet."

The word changed his expression.

He walked out.

Dr. Patel performed the ultrasound.

My baby moved weakly on the screen.

She explained that part of the placenta might be separating from the uterine wall.

Trauma could have caused it.

So could uncontrolled blood pressure.

The drugs might have contributed.

"We may need to deliver tonight," she said.

"I'm only thirty-one weeks."

"I know."

"Will she survive?"

Dr. Patel looked at the monitor.

"We are going to do everything possible."

She.

My baby was a girl.

Ethan had insisted we not learn the gender.

He said surprises made life meaningful.

Now I realized he had not cared.

I had spent months protecting a daughter whose face I had never seen.

"What happens now?"

"We give medication to help her lungs. We monitor both of you. If the bleeding worsens or her heartbeat drops again, we operate."

My father stood beside the bed.

"I'll stay."

Detective Ortiz entered again.

"Dr. Hawthorne is gone."

My father turned.

"You told him not to leave."

"We posted an officer at the main entrance. He used a staff exit."

Fear crawled over my skin.

"He's going to warn Ethan."

"Ethan is in custody."

"Not Ethan."

I remembered my husband's final words.

You have no idea who else is involved.

Detective Ortiz's phone rang.

She answered.

Her face became serious.

"What do you mean the cruiser never arrived?"

My father stepped closer.

"What happened?"

She ended the call.

"The vehicle transporting Ethan was struck at an intersection."

My heart pounded.

"Is he hurt?"

"The officer is unconscious."

"And Ethan?"

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Detective Ortiz looked at me.

"Missing."