Chapter 2 - The Number I Never Forgot
Rebecca answered on the fourth ring.
Not because she knew it was me.
The nurse had called the public number for the prosecutor’s office after hours and asked for the on-call supervisor.
Rebecca happened to be working late on a domestic violence trial preparation.
When the nurse said my name, the line went quiet.
“Caroline?”
I started crying before I could answer.
For three years Luke had told me Rebecca no longer wanted anything to do with me.
“She thinks you chose him.”
“She said she’s done trying.”
“She told me not to call.”
All lies.
Rebecca had sent birthday cards Luke intercepted.
Emails moved to trash.
Messages blocked.
She had even come to our house once.
Luke told me she never arrived.
He told Rebecca I refused to see her.
Now her voice filled the hospital room.
“I’m here.”
I pressed my good hand against my mouth.
“Rebecca.”
“What happened?”
The nurse looked at me.
I said:
“Luke hurt me.”
My sister stopped breathing for a second.
Then professional instinct replaced panic.
“Are you safe right now?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in the room?”
“No.”
Police had removed him to a secured area.
Then:
“Listen to me. I work for the prosecutor’s office, but I cannot handle your case. I’m your sister. That would be a conflict.”
Even then she was careful.
“But I can contact victim services and make sure another prosecutor is assigned properly.”
I nodded though she could not see.
“Okay.”
“Do you want me there?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming.”
The nurse hung up.
The doctor, Dr. Rachel Warren, was the same obstetrician from my prenatal clinic.
She had come downstairs after the trauma team called obstetrics.
That was why she knew my history quickly.
She pulled a chair beside me.
“Caroline, I need to be precise.”
I nodded.
“The records show three prior pregnancies with genetic testing. All three showed male fetuses without the chromosomal abnormalities that commonly explain early miscarriage.”
My throat tightened.
“What about the fourth?”
“No fetal sex result in record.”
“So they were healthy?”
“Genetically normal on the tests performed. That does not prove nothing medical caused the losses.”
She paused.
“But there are repeated abnormalities in your charts that concern me.”
“What?”
“Each time, your liver enzymes rose unexpectedly. Your blood pressure changed. There were symptoms that were attributed to dehydration or pregnancy complications.”
I remembered.
Vomiting.
Cramping.
Dizziness.
Luke telling doctors:
“She never drinks enough water.”
Dr. Warren continued:
“There are also notes that you were taking several supplements brought from home.”
“Prenatal vitamins.”
“Were they prescribed?”
“Luke bought them.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Did you bring bottles to appointments?”
“No.”
“He did.”
She wrote.
No accusation.
Not yet.
Then:
“Tonight’s burns also do not match his first explanation well.”
“Why?”
“The pattern on your back and shoulder suggests liquid was directed from above and behind you rather than simply spilling from your own hands.”
She did not claim certainty.
But concern.
Then hospital security entered.
The nurse who tackled Luke was Carla Jenkins.
She had bruised shoulder.
Still working.
She told police:
“I saw him lift the container toward patient.”
No ambiguity about second attack.
The first one remained at home.
Police needed scene.
Then Officer Daniel Price came to bedside.
“Mrs. Mercer, are you willing to speak?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe your husband intentionally poured hot water on you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Has he hurt you before?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing.
There were too many answers.
He had shoved me.
Grabbed me.
Locked me inside bedroom.
Held my head under cold shower.
Thrown food.
Taken my phone.
Withheld bank card.
Made me kneel while apologizing.
But boiling water?
Yes.
Not this bad.
Once on my wrist.
Once across my thigh from a kettle he claimed slipped.
Both when pregnant.
I whispered:
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don't know.”
That was honest.
Then:
“Has he ever tampered with your medication?”
My heart stopped.
“I don't know.”
“Food?”
“I don't know.”
“Supplements?”
“I don't know.”
Again.
The doctor looked at officer.
“Please make sure her home medication and supplement containers are preserved.”
He nodded.
A warrant would be needed if Luke did not consent.
Because it was our shared home, I could consent to some access, but police still wanted proper process for evidence.
Good.
No rushing.
Then another contraction.
My entire body tightened.
The monitor changed.
Dr. Warren stood.
“Caroline?”
“My stomach.”
The baby’s heart rate dipped.
Then recovered.
“Could burns cause labor?”
“Stress can contribute. We’re watching.”
I panicked.
“No.”
“Look at me.”
“She’s too early.”
“Thirty-four weeks is premature, but many babies do very well. We are not delivering unless we have to.”
The contractions continued.
Magnesium? At 34 weeks may not. Steroids for lung maturity perhaps. They administered appropriate medications, monitored.
I closed my eyes.
Luke had done enough.
He was not taking her too.
Then Rebecca arrived.
She ran into doorway and stopped.
She had always been five years older.
Confident.
Sharp.
The woman who argued with teachers when I was too shy.
Now she looked at me wrapped in bandages.
Her face collapsed.
She did not touch me until she asked.
“Can I?”
I nodded.
She came carefully.
Held my fingers.
“I thought you hated me.”
I cried.
“I thought you stopped trying.”
She shook her head.
“Never.”
Then:
“He changed your number. Blocked me. Told security at your office I was harassing you.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I came twice.”
Luke told me she never did.
Rebecca continued:
“I sent certified letters.”
I never saw.
Then:
“I filed a welfare concern last year.”
My chest tightened.
“The police came?”
“An officer spoke to Luke at the door. He said you were out of town.”
I had been upstairs.
I remembered Luke telling me not to come down because a salesman was outside.
Everything started rearranging itself.
Rebecca looked at Dr. Warren.
“Does she need a protective order tonight?”
The doctor looked to police.
Officer Price said emergency protection could be requested.
Rebecca immediately stopped herself.
“Sorry. I’m not the attorney on this.”
She looked at me.
“You decide.”
That mattered.
“Yes.”
I said.
“I want him away from me.”
Then Rebecca asked:
“Where is your phone?”
I froze.
Luke had it.
Of course.
Police recovered a phone from his pocket.
Mine.
He claimed I gave it to him.
I had not.
When they returned it, Rebecca helped me unlock.
There were no messages from her.
Blocked.
Deleted.
Then she opened cloud settings.
A family sharing account.
Administrator:
Luke.
Location services.
Email forwarding.
Backups.
He had more access than I understood.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Did you know he managed all this?”
“No.”
Then a notification appeared from our home security system.
Motion detected.
Someone had entered the house.
Luke was in custody.
I stared.
“Who is that?”
Officer Price looked at screen.
May you like
The kitchen camera thumbnail showed Luke’s younger brother, Mason, carrying a black trash bag.
Straight toward the cabinet where Luke kept my supplements.
