Chapter 2 - The Rehearsal
Every bump of the ambulance felt like a sledgehammer against my abdomen.
The paramedic, a woman named Sarah with sharp gray eyes, worked swiftly, applying sterile, cool saline dressings over my lower abdomen and thighs. She kept her fingers light, her voice a calm anchor amidst my ragged breathing.
“Second-degree burns across the anterior thighs,” Sarah reported into her radio headset. “Uterine contractions suspected. Fetal heart rate elevated at 168. Prepare trauma bay four.”
“My baby,” I managed to choke out, clutching the edge of the gurney until my fingernails turned white. “Is she okay?”
“We’re monitoring her heartbeat, Claire. Stay with me. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth,” Sarah murmured, leaning close. Her eyes flicked over the burns, then toward the small ambulance window where Ryan sat up front beside the driver. “Honey, how did this pot fall?”
Before I could form words, the partition slid open. Ryan’s pale face appeared in the gap. He had rubbed his eyes until they were raw, putting on the masterclass performance of a devastated, doting husband.
“She was reaching for the tea bags above the stove,” Ryan said, his voice cracking with rehearsed tears. “I told her a hundred times to let me get things down for her. She’s just so stubborn... she slipped on the floor mat, grabbed the pot to steady herself, and brought it down. It happened in half a second.”
Sarah didn't look back at him. She kept her eyes locked on mine. She was an emergency responder; she had seen domestic violence cloaked as domestic clumsiness a thousand times before.
She saw the defensive bruising on my left wrist where Ryan had gripped me. She saw the angle of the splash pattern on my thighs, which spread outward rather than directly downward.
“Ma'am?” Sarah asked quietly, squeezing my shoulder. “Is that what happened?”
I felt Ryan’s gaze boring through the back of my skull from the partition. *“They’ll put you in psych evaluation... they’ll take the baby away.”* His threat echoed in the sterile confines of the rig.
If I accused him now, without the footage in my hands, Patricia and Ryan would scrub the crime scene. They had the keys. They were alone in my father’s house right now. If they suspected anything, they would rip down the drywall, smash the pantry, and destroy the server before I could ever leave the burn unit.
I swallowed the metallic taste of blood from my bitten lip.
“I... I need my baby to be okay,” I whispered, turning my face toward the wall.
Sarah tightened her lips, a silent look of grim understanding passing across her features. “All right, sweetheart. Just hold on. We’re pulling into St. Jude’s now.”
The trauma bay was a whirlwind of fluorescent lights, cold stainless steel, and shouted vitals. Within minutes, Dr. Elena Ramos, the high-risk OB/GYN on call, was palpating my stomach while burn specialists dressed my raw flesh.
“Her contractions are three minutes apart,” Dr. Ramos announced, adjusting the fetal monitor strap over my swollen belly. “The thermal shock and trauma have triggered early labor. We need magnesium sulfate to slow this down, and we need an ultrasound immediately.”
Through the curtain, I could hear Patricia’s shrill, aristocratic voice dominating the waiting room.
“Excuse me, Nurse! My son is the patient’s husband and legal next-of-kin. We need to be in that room. She is completely hysterical and prone to fainting spells. She can’t make medical decisions right now!”
“Ma'am, please step behind the yellow line,” a stern nurse replied. “The doctors are stabilizing the patient.”
A moment later, Dr. Ramos leaned close to my ear, her gloved fingers gently checking my pulse. “Claire, can you hear me clearly?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Your husband is outside demanding to sign your admission paperwork and your treatment consent forms. He’s also asking about your mental competency to sign legal releases.” Dr. Ramos’s dark eyes narrowed with professional suspicion. “I have spent twenty years in emergency medicine. A woman doesn't spill six quarts of scalding soup horizontally across her lap while standing in front of a counter. Did he do this to you?”
Tears spilled over my temples, burning the corners of my eyes.
“He pushed me,” I whispered, my voice barely audible beneath the rhythmic beeping of the fetal monitor. “He pushed me because I wouldn't sign over my house.”
Dr. Ramos didn't gasp. She didn't hesitate. She patted my arm with steady warmth. “That’s all I needed to hear. Hospital policy allows any pregnant patient under trauma protocol to designate a sole advocate and restrict visitors. Who do you trust, Claire? Because right now, you cannot let that man back into this room.”
“Marcus Cole,” I gasped, clutching her wrist. “Call Marcus Cole. He’s an attorney. His card is in my phone... under Emergency Contacts.”
Dr. Ramos nodded firmly. “Consider it done. And Ryan? He’s not stepping one foot past that security door tonight.”
Outside the curtain, I heard Ryan’s voice rise in sudden fury as two hospital security guards approached him.
“What do you mean I can’t go back there? I’m her husband! I have rights!”
“Sir, step back immediately,” a deep guard’s voice commanded.
The battle had begun. But as the nurse pushed a syringe of pain medication into my IV line, a cold realization gripped my chest:
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Ryan and Patricia were locked out of the hospital room. Which meant they were heading straight back to Elm Street.
***
