A cold, bitter knot twisted in my gut. Evelyn wasn’t a stranger. She was the senior paralegal at Carver & Associates—the boutique wealth management firm founded by Russell Carver, where Elliot served as junior vice president. Evelyn had attended our wedding. She had sat at table four, smiling politely, sipping champagne that I had paid for.
She had known me for half a decade. And she had pressed her official state seal onto a document designed to strip me of my rights while I was suffocated in my own home.
They hadn’t just plotted this in secret; they had drafted it at their corporate desks, on company letterhead, during normal business hours.
The sudden wail of approaching sirens sliced through the afternoon quiet, echoing off the pine-covered ridges of the mountain. Red and blue lights flashed through the high clerestory windows of the living room, painting the vaulted ceiling in violent crimson and azure.
Tires screeched on the gravel outside. Heavy car doors slammed.
“State Police! Anyone inside?” a booming male voice shouted through the open front entryway.
“In here!” I called out, my voice cracking under the strain. “In the master corridor!”
Within seconds, two uniformed Vermont State Troopers entered the hallway, their hands resting cautiously on their service weapons. Behind them hurried two paramedics in navy blue tactical jumpsuits, carrying heavy orange trauma bags and a folding stretcher.
The lead officer was a tall, weathered man with graying temples and sharp, assessing eyes. His nametag read Sergeant Miller.
His eyes widened as he took in the scene: the ripped doorframe, the heavy chain, the glowing sauna furnace, and me—standing against the wall, drenched in sweat, holding a professional camera, my hands shaking uncontrollably as a visible contraction gripped my body.
“Holy hell,” Miller muttered, stepping forward and instantly signaling the paramedics. “Get her on the gurney right now.”
“Don’t touch the chain,” I gasped, leaning heavily against the paramedic who grabbed my shoulders. “Do not touch the padlock or the folder on the floor. It’s all evidence. Forensics needs to dust the handles.”
“Ma’am, we’ve got the scene secured,” Sergeant Miller said gently, kneeling beside the paperwork and carefully using the tip of a pen to inspect the top page. His expression darkened considerably as he read the title. “I’m Sergeant Miller. Dispatch briefed us on the way up. You’re Maren Carver?”
“Maren Bellamy,” I corrected through gritted teeth, panting through a blinding wave of pain. “I kept my maiden name on the deed. That’s why they needed to forge my signature. Elliot couldn’t touch the property without it.”
The female paramedic, a young woman with a calm, steady demeanor, knelt beside me and strapped a blood pressure cuff around my bicep.
“Blood pressure is 165 over 110,” she announced to her partner, her voice tightening with urgency. “Her pulse is 135. Fetal heart monitor, now!”
She pulled a portable ultrasound Doppler from her kit, squirted cold blue gel onto the monitor wand, and pressed it firmly against the lower curve of my stomach.
For three terrifying seconds, there was only static—a rushing, white-noise hiss that made my heart plummet into my throat.
“Find her,” I begged, tears blinding me. “Please, God, find her.”
Then, a rapid, rhythmic thumping filled the hallway.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
It was fast—too fast. A frantic, galloping rhythm.
“Fetal heart rate is 185,” the paramedic said grimly, looking up at her colleague. “The baby is in acute distress from maternal shock and elevated body temperature. We have to transport immediately. Central Vermont Medical Center is already prepping Trauma Room 3.”
“Wait,” I gasped, grabbing Sergeant Miller’s tactical vest as they lifted me onto the stretcher. “Sergeant, look at me.”
The veteran officer leaned down, his face somber.
“You have to stop them,” I said, my fingers digging into the nylon fabric of his uniform. “Russell and Diane Carver. They are driving a silver Lexus RX, Vermont plate K-7-R-9-9. They are heading to Burlington Airport for a flight to San Francisco. Elliot Carver is in Boston at the Harborfront Hotel. He ordered this. If they realize I got out, they will destroy the accounts. They will run.”
“Troopers are already staging at the Burlington terminals, Mrs. Bellamy,” Miller said firmly. “Our dispatch has alerted the Port Authority and Massachusetts State Police. Nobody is leaving this jurisdiction until we sort this out. Focus on that baby girl. Let us handle the Carvers.”
They wheeled me out of the house at a dead sprint. The bright mountain sunlight stung my eyes as the cold November air hit my feverish skin. They lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the heavy rear doors slammed shut, and the siren let loose an ear-splitting howl as the rig lunged forward, tearing down the mountain road.
