Part 2: My husband bound me with rope while I was in active labor to force me into signing divorce papers, completely unaware that his stolen phone was auto-dialing emergency services inside the wall.

“I put it in the wall,” Patricia repeated, her voice dripping with an eerie, self-satisfied venom from the other side of the bathroom door. “Because I knew she’d crawl like a dog to find it if she thought there was a way out. She’s stubborn, Daniel. You have to break the stubborn ones early, or they ruin everything you build.”

My knuckles turned white around the cracked casing of my phone. A fresh wave of agony seized my abdomen, tighter and sharper than the last, radiating down my lower back like liquid fire. I bit into the fleshy part of my thumb to keep from screaming.

“Emily, listen to me,” the triage nurse said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp, authoritative tone over the speaker. “My name is Sarah. I’ve already flagged your address in our dispatch network. Paramedics and local law enforcement are being routed to your location right now. Code three. Lights and sirens. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I breathed, tears finally spilling over my hot cheeks. “Yes, please. My water broke an hour ago. The contractions are three minutes apart. I can't... I can't stand on my ankle.”

“Emily! Open this goddamn door!” Daniel roared, slamming his shoulder into the wood. The hollow-core door groaned under the impact, the brass latch vibrating inside the frame. “You think someone is going to save you? You sign the release on the condo, or you don’t leave this house until that kid is out! We are not losing everything because of your pride!”

Through the narrow gap beneath the door, I saw his heavy leather work boots pacing violently. Next to them stood Patricia’s beige orthopedic flats, completely still.

“He doesn't mean it, darling,” Patricia purred through the wood, her tone shifting into that nauseating, performative sweetness she used in public. “Just slide the signed deed under the door. Then Daniel will drive you straight to Saint Jude’s. We even packed a bag for the little one. Why make this so ugly?”

“She’s on the phone with someone, you idiot!” Daniel snarled at his mother. Then came the metallic rattle of a screwdriver tapping against the lock cylinder. He wasn't just kicking it anymore—he was dismantling the hinges.