“Ten… nine… eight…”
The darkness swallowed me whole.
***
Consciousness returned in pieces, like jagged shards of glass piecing themselves back together.
First came the smell: antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and the sharp, metallic tang of an intensive care unit.
Then came the sounds: the steady, rhythmic beep… beep… beep of a heart monitor, the soft hiss of an automatic blood pressure cuff inflating, and the low, hushed rumble of voices talking near the foot of my bed.
I opened my eyes.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of medical monitors. Sunlight was filtering through horizontal blinds, casting long, golden bars across the pale linoleum floor.
Morning.
A whole night had passed.
Instinct took over before my brain was fully awake. My hands flew down to my stomach.
The heavy, swollen mound was gone.
My abdomen was flat, wrapped tightly in heavy surgical bandages that throbbed with a deep, dull ache.
“No…” A strangled gasp tore from my throat as tears instantly flooded my vision. “No, no, no… where is she? Where is my baby?!”
“Maren! Maren, look at me. Breathe.”
A warm, steady hand grasped mine.
I turned my head frantically. Sitting in the vinyl armchair beside my bed was Arthur Sterling, my father’s lifelong best friend and the most ruthless estate attorney in northern New England. He was in his late sixties, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal wool suit, his sharp, weathered face creased with exhaustion and fierce protective anger.
Beside him stood Sergeant Miller, still in uniform, his hat tucked under his arm.
“Arthur?” I sobbed, clutching his hand like a lifeline. “Where is she? Did she survive? Tell me she’s alive!”
“She’s alive, Maren,” Arthur said softly, his voice thick with emotion as he squeezed my fingers. “She’s alive. She’s in the neonatal intensive care unit down the hall. Four pounds, eleven ounces. She had a rough start, but she’s breathing on her own. Dr. Vance did an extraordinary job. Your daughter is a fighter, just like her mother.”
A ragged, shuddering sob tore through my chest—not of pain, but of profound, overwhelming relief. I buried my face in the scratchy hospital sheet, letting the tears pour out until my ribs ached.
She was alive.
My little girl had survived their furnace.
“Thank God,” I wept. “Thank God…”
“You did that, Maren,” Sergeant Miller said, stepping closer to the side of the bed. His jaw was set like granite. “If you hadn’t tripped that safety latch and gotten out of that room, neither of you would be here today.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, forcing myself to sit up against the adjustable mattress. The surgical incision pulled sharply across my pelvis, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the cold fire igniting in my chest.
“Where are they?” I demanded, looking directly at the state trooper. “Did you catch them?”
Sergeant Miller’s expression turned grim. He exchanged a brief, heavy look with Arthur before pulling a small leather notebook from his breast pocket.
“State troopers intercepted Russell and Diane Carver at the gate of Terminal B at Burlington International forty minutes before their flight departed,” Miller said.
“Are they in custody?”
“They were brought in for questioning,” Miller sighed, running a hand through his gray hair. “Russell immediately invoked his right to counsel. Within twenty minutes, three corporate defense attorneys showed up at the barracks. Diane claimed it was all a terrible misunderstanding. She swore under oath that you had locked yourself in the sauna accidentally during an emotional breakdown, that the chain was simply on the floor for maintenance, and that you were suffering from postpartum psychosis before the child was even born.”
“Psychosis?!” I choked out, pure fury surging through my veins. “Postpartum psychosis? The chain was locked from the outside! Her fingerprints are on the padlock!”
“They claimed Russell locked the exterior handle months ago to keep neighborhood raccoons out while the outdoor patio was under construction, and that you somehow wedged yourself inside,” Miller said, his frustration evident. “And because the local magistrate who handled their arraignment happens to play golf at the same country club as Russell Carver, bail was set at fifty thousand dollars cash. Russell paid it out of his travel funds on the spot.”
“They’re out?” My voice dropped to an icy whisper. “They tried to incinerate me and my child, and they are walking the streets?”
