Chapter 1
I was seven months pregnant when my husband drove his fist into my stomach for the third time.
I crumpled to the kitchen tile, gasping, my hands clamped so tight over my belly my nails dug into my skin.
The baby stopped moving.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Then the white-hot pain in my ribs, where his mistress had kicked me while I was down.
I tried to crawl toward the landline on the counter.
Daniel’s boot slammed into my wrist.
I screamed.
Black spots swarmed my vision.
The last thing I heard before I passed out was Lila’s laugh, high and sharp, like breaking glass.
When I woke up, I was tied to a wooden dining chair.
Rope bit into my wrists, raw and oozing blood.
My head throbbed so bad I could barely focus my eyes.
Blood crusted on my split lip, my chin, the collar of my favorite cotton shirt.
I tested the ropes.
They didn’t give an inch.
I looked around the kitchen.
It was still my kitchen.
The same chipped mugs lined up on the counter.
The same crayon drawing I’d taped to the fridge that morning, of our “happy family” with three stick figures and a sun.
Daniel was leaning against the window, arms crossed, picking at a loose thread on his designer shirt.
He looked bored.
Like he was waiting for a late bus, not watching his pregnant wife bleed on his floor.
Lila was perched on my kitchen island.
She was drinking my orange juice.
Straight from the carton.
Her legs swung back and forth, like she was at a Sunday picnic.
She caught me staring.
She winked.
I tried to speak.
My throat was full of coppery blood.
“Why?”
It came out a ragged, broken whisper.
Daniel pushed off the window.
He walked over slow, his shoes sticking a little in the juice Lila had spilled earlier.
Crouched in front of me.
His face was blank.
No anger.
No regret.
Nothing at all.
“Because you’re inconvenient,” he said.
Like he was explaining why he’d thrown out a carton of sour milk.
“The baby’s a Langford. It stays. You don’t.”
Lila hopped off the counter.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Dropped the juice carton on the floor.
It spilled across the white tile, bright and sticky, like more blood.
“We already signed all the papers,” she said, grinning so wide her dimples showed.
“Power of attorney. Medical consent. After you pop, you have a nice little accident. Postpartum depression. Everyone feels real bad. No one asks questions.”
I stared at them.
My vision blurred.
I thought I was going to be sick.
Then the front door opened.
Soft, deliberate footsteps.
Expensive jasmine perfume.
The kind that cost more than my entire used car.
My mother-in-law walked in.
Helen Langford.
Matriarch of the Langford Group.
The woman who’d cried and called me “daughter” at my wedding.
Who’d held my hand and cooed at the ultrasound screen at my first prenatal appointment.
She carried a small black leather bag, the kind she took to board meetings.
She looked at me.
Tied to the chair.
Bleeding.
Barely conscious.
She looked at Daniel.
At Lila.
And she smiled.
Not shocked.
Not horrified.
Pleased.
“Good,” she said, her voice calm and cool, like she was complimenting a maid on a spotless floor.
“You finally grew a spine. I was starting to think I’d raised two useless cowards.”
She set the black bag on the dining table.
Unzipped it slow.
My blood turned to ice in my veins.
Inside were three capped syringes.
A thick stack of legal papers.
A sealed manila envelope with my name typed on the front in crisp black font.
Daniel and Lila stepped back in unison.
Like soldiers yielding to their general.
Helen turned to me.
Her cold smile didn’t waver.
She reached out.
Brushed a matted strand of hair off my face.
Her hand was ice cold, like she’d been holding a glass of water.
“Don’t look so surprised, dear,” she said softly.
“Who do you think taught Daniel how to pick a wife he could wrap around his finger? Who do you think showed Lila how to dig her claws in deep enough to keep him?”
She pulled a syringe from the bag.
Twisted the cap off with a sharp snap.
Flicked the needle with her perfectly manicured nail.
A single drop of clear liquid beaded at the tip.
“This one will keep you nice and calm until the baby comes,” she said.
“The next two… well. Let’s just say you’ll never bother us again. And no coroner in the city will ever find a thing wrong.”
She stepped closer.
I strained against the ropes until my arms screamed.
I looked past her.
At Daniel.
At Lila.
At the woman who was supposed to be my family.
They stood together.
A perfect little triangle.
All looking down at me.
Like I was already in the ground.
Helen raised the syringe.
The overhead light glinted off the sharp steel.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time in five years, I prayed for the life I’d left behind.
The one I’d walked away from for a man who’d just handed me a death sentence.
The needle touched my arm.
Cold.
Sharp.
And then—
A crash from the front hall.
Helen froze mid-motion.
Daniel’s head snapped up.
Lila gasped so loud it echoed.
Heavy, fast footsteps.
Shouting.
The kitchen door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.
I didn’t see who it was.
The black spots came back, thicker this time.
May you like
But the last thing I heard, before I slipped under completely, was a deep, familiar voice I’d thought I’d never hear again.
“Ms. Voss. We’re here. You’re safe.”
