Chapter 1 - THE CLOTH UNDER THE CHAIR
The knife barely broke the skin.
That was what Mark would later call it.
Barely.
As though pain became harmless when measured in millimeters.
He had my wrist pinned against the kitchen counter while his mother stood beside him holding a thick bottle of cleaner.
My stomach was seven months pregnant.
My knees were shaking.
Mark leaned close enough that I could smell coffee on his breath.
“Cry again, and the next cut goes deeper.”
I tried not to.
My body ignored me.
A sob escaped anyway.
Elaine grabbed my chin.
“Hold still.”
Then the liquid touched the first shallow wound.
Fire.
There is no better word.
I screamed.
Elaine’s mouth twisted.
“Disinfecting the belly that was supposed to give us a girl.”
“Please.”
Mark tightened his grip.
“You heard Mom.”
I kicked backward.
Missed.
My phone sat on the counter three feet away.
Too far.
Mark followed my eyes.
He slapped it to the floor.
The screen cracked.
“You’re not calling anybody.”
Elaine poured again.
The smell filled my nose.
My throat.
My lungs.
“You’re nothing but a failed womb.”
I stopped hearing individual words after that.
The room narrowed.
Counter.
Knife.
Cleaner.
Mark’s hand.
The pressure inside my abdomen.
And the small square of white cloth trapped inside my palm.
I had torn it from a dish towel earlier when Mark stepped outside to answer a call.
I knew what they would say if I survived.
Emily did it herself.
Emily spilled something.
Emily is unstable.
Emily is dramatic.
So while Mark searched my phone, I pressed the cloth against my skin.
Blood.
Liquid.
Anything that survived.
Then I shoved it under the seat cushion of the dining chair beside me.
Elaine did not notice.
Mark did.
Or I thought he did.
His eyes moved toward the chair.
Then back to me.
“Get up.”
I could not.
My knees folded.
He grabbed my hair.
That was the last thing I clearly remembered.
Then darkness.
I woke beneath white hospital lights.
My abdomen was covered in clean dressings.
An IV ran into my arm.
A monitor beeped beside me.
My sister Rachel sat against the wall crying into both hands.
When she saw my eyes open, she stood so fast her chair scraped backward.
“Emily.”
My throat hurt.
“Baby?”
Her face broke.
The doctor answered for her.
Dr. Hannah Cole.
She pulled a stool beside the bed.
“Emily, the injuries caused severe tissue damage and complications.”
I watched her mouth move.
My heart already knew.
“We couldn’t save the pregnancy.”
Everything inside me stopped.
No sound came out.
Rachel grabbed my hand.
I turned toward the wall.
Then Dr. Cole said:
“There is something else you need to know.”
I did not want anything else.
She continued anyway.
“The baby was male.”
I turned back.
“What?”
“A boy.”
“No.”
My voice barely existed.
“They said…”
I saw Elaine again.
The cleaner.
The words.
Supposed to give us a girl.
For months they had talked about a daughter.
The Whitmore girl.
The family girl.
Elaine bought pink blankets before I wanted anyone buying anything.
Mark kept saying his mother had “waited her whole life for this.”
And now my doctor was telling me my child had been a boy.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Could there be a mistake?”
“We confirmed.”
My mind could not fit the pieces together.
Then Rachel remembered something.
She reached into her purse.
A clear evidence bag.
Inside it:
The cloth.
“I found it.”
My pulse jumped.
“Where?”
“Under the dining chair.”
“You went back?”
“Police were there. I told them exactly what your message said.”
Message.
I remembered sending three words before Mark took my phone.
Take the cloth.
Rachel had understood.
She had given it directly to the officer.
The hospital police liaison sent it for urgent preservation because of the chemical exposure.
Rachel lowered her voice.
“They did a preliminary test.”
“What?”
“The blood.”
I stared.
“They said there’s more than one profile.”
“That would be mine and the baby.”
Rachel shook her head.
“No.”
Her face had gone white.
“They excluded both.”
My breath caught.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s blood on that cloth that isn’t yours.”
She swallowed.
“And it isn’t the baby’s.”
I stared at the bag.
Then at her.
“Whose is it?”
Rachel looked toward the hospital door.
“I don’t know.”
Outside, a police radio crackled.
Then Dr. Cole said something that made the room colder.
“Emily, there was another woman scheduled to see you at your home this morning.”
“What woman?”
“Our prenatal nurse.”
I had no memory of that.
May you like
“She never came back to the clinic.”
Continue to the next part: Police learn a prenatal nurse visited Emily’s house hours before the attack and has not been seen since.
