Chapter 5
The basement smelled like rust and bleach.
They dropped me on the concrete floor. Didn't bother with a chair, didn't bother tying me up. I was too weak to stand, let alone run.
One of them zip-tied my wrists anyway. Habit, probably.
The fluorescent light above me buzzed and flickered. One tube was dead, the other dying. Everything looked yellow and sick.
I pressed my hand to my stomach. The stitches had torn open completely. Blood was seeping through my fingers, warm and steady.
If I didn't get pressure on this wound in the next twenty minutes, I was done.
I could still hear the baby crying upstairs. Faint, muffled through the ceiling. Every cry pulled at something deep inside me, something chemical and raw and impossible to ignore.
My body wanted to go to her. My body was made to go to her. And I was bleeding out on a basement floor instead.
Stay alive. Dad is coming.
I had to believe that.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Footsteps. Slow, casual.
Derek.
He came down the stairs with his hands in his pockets, like he was taking a walk in the park. Stopped a few feet from me, looking down.
"You could have made this easy," he said. Like he was disappointed in me. Like I'd let him down.
"Easy." I coughed. Blood came with it. "You cut me open without anesthesia and stole my baby. What part of that is easy?"
He crouched down. Up close, I could see the man I'd married. Same jaw, same eyes, same mouth that used to kiss my forehead goodnight.
"You were never supposed to find out about Vivian. That was the plan. You'd have the baby, we'd split, I'd get custody—"
"And then what? You'd just disappear with my daughter?"
"Our daughter would've been fine. She would've had the best of everything."
"With that psychopath as her mother?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Not guilt. Irritation.
"Vivian has her issues. But she loves me. She's been with me since before you. Since before all of this." He gestured vaguely at my bleeding body. "You were supposed to be simple. Easy in, easy out. Instead you went and fell in love."
He said it like it was my fault. Like loving my own husband was the stupidest thing I could've done.
"I'm gonna die down here, Derek."
"Yeah." He stood up. Brushed off his knees. "That's kind of the point."
"And when people ask where your wife went?"
"Postpartum complications. It happens." He shrugged. "I've got a doctor upstairs who'll sign anything I need. Death certificate. Cremation order. All wrapped up before sunrise."
He had it all planned. Every piece. Every paper. Every lie.
But he was missing one thing.
"Derek."
He paused at the base of the stairs.
"What do you know about my family?"
His brow furrowed. "Your family? Your dad's dead. Your mom left when you were twelve. You've got no one, Elena. That's why I chose you."
I laughed. It hurt like hell—every muscle in my abdomen screaming—but I laughed.
"You chose wrong."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then shook his head, climbed the stairs, and shut the door behind him.
The lock clicked.
I was alone.
The blood was pooling beneath me now, dark and shining under the dying fluorescent light. My vision swam. Everything was getting farther away.
I pressed both hands hard against the wound. Gritted my teeth. Focused on one thing.
My daughter's cry. Still there. Still loud.
Still alive.
Hold on. Both of us, just hold on.
Then—from somewhere above—a sound that didn't belong.
Glass breaking. Lots of it. And shouting. Not Derek's voice. Not Vivian's.
Deeper. Louder. Military.
The ceiling above me shook. Dust rained down.
They were here.
They dropped me on the concrete floor. Didn't bother with a chair, didn't bother tying me up. I was too weak to stand, let alone run.
One of them zip-tied my wrists anyway. Habit, probably.
The fluorescent light above me buzzed and flickered. One tube was dead, the other dying. Everything looked yellow and sick.
I pressed my hand to my stomach. The stitches had torn open completely. Blood was seeping through my fingers, warm and steady.
If I didn't get pressure on this wound in the next twenty minutes, I was done.
I could still hear the baby crying upstairs. Faint, muffled through the ceiling. Every cry pulled at something deep inside me, something chemical and raw and impossible to ignore.
My body wanted to go to her. My body was made to go to her. And I was bleeding out on a basement floor instead.
Stay alive. Dad is coming.
I had to believe that.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Footsteps. Slow, casual.
Derek.
He came down the stairs with his hands in his pockets, like he was taking a walk in the park. Stopped a few feet from me, looking down.
"You could have made this easy," he said. Like he was disappointed in me. Like I'd let him down.
"Easy." I coughed. Blood came with it. "You cut me open without anesthesia and stole my baby. What part of that is easy?"
He crouched down. Up close, I could see the man I'd married. Same jaw, same eyes, same mouth that used to kiss my forehead goodnight.
"You were never supposed to find out about Vivian. That was the plan. You'd have the baby, we'd split, I'd get custody—"
"And then what? You'd just disappear with my daughter?"
"Our daughter would've been fine. She would've had the best of everything."
"With that psychopath as her mother?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Not guilt. Irritation.
"Vivian has her issues. But she loves me. She's been with me since before you. Since before all of this." He gestured vaguely at my bleeding body. "You were supposed to be simple. Easy in, easy out. Instead you went and fell in love."
He said it like it was my fault. Like loving my own husband was the stupidest thing I could've done.
"I'm gonna die down here, Derek."
"Yeah." He stood up. Brushed off his knees. "That's kind of the point."
"And when people ask where your wife went?"
"Postpartum complications. It happens." He shrugged. "I've got a doctor upstairs who'll sign anything I need. Death certificate. Cremation order. All wrapped up before sunrise."
He had it all planned. Every piece. Every paper. Every lie.
But he was missing one thing.
"Derek."
He paused at the base of the stairs.
"What do you know about my family?"
His brow furrowed. "Your family? Your dad's dead. Your mom left when you were twelve. You've got no one, Elena. That's why I chose you."
I laughed. It hurt like hell—every muscle in my abdomen screaming—but I laughed.
"You chose wrong."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then shook his head, climbed the stairs, and shut the door behind him.
The lock clicked.
I was alone.
The blood was pooling beneath me now, dark and shining under the dying fluorescent light. My vision swam. Everything was getting farther away.
I pressed both hands hard against the wound. Gritted my teeth. Focused on one thing.
My daughter's cry. Still there. Still loud.
Still alive.
Hold on. Both of us, just hold on.
Then—from somewhere above—a sound that didn't belong.
Glass breaking. Lots of it. And shouting. Not Derek's voice. Not Vivian's.
Deeper. Louder. Military.
The ceiling above me shook. Dust rained down.
They were here.