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The foam had been ripped open. The straps were severed. Whoever did this hadn’t just meant to frighten me. She wanted to send a message to my unborn daughter too.
My knees nearly buckled, but the security guard caught my elbow and eased me into a chair. My baby kicked sharply inside me, frantic and strong, as if she could feel my fear. I pressed both hands to my stomach and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Two officers arrived within minutes. Detective Sarah Morrison crouched in front of me, glanced at my belly, then at the wrecked car, her expression turning cold.
“This wasn’t random,” she said. “Do you know who did this?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to stay in that soft, foolish place where terrible things happen without names attached to them. But deep down, I already knew. For months, I had sensed the way my husband’s assistant looked at me, like I didn’t belong in my own life. I had felt Derek pulling away. I had known there was another woman behind the late meetings, the sudden passwords, the silence at dinner.
The security guard brought over a tablet.
“We have footage,” he said quietly.
The video was clear. Painfully clear.