CHAPTER 2 THE WOMAN IN THE DOORWAY
“Is everything finished?”
Patricia Brooks’s voice entered the kitchen before the rest of her did.
I lay curled on the hardwood floor, my cheek pressed against the cold wood, my arms wrapped around my stomach. Every breath felt like broken glass moving through my ribs.
Brianna stood over me with my phone still clutched in her hand.
“Almost,” she answered.
The answer came too easily.
No shock.
No panic.
No question about why her pregnant daughter-in-law was bleeding and lying in a pool of amniotic fluid.
Patricia stepped around the corner wearing a cream-colored coat and pearl earrings, dressed as though she had just returned from a charity luncheon. Her eyes traveled from Brianna to the forged documents on the counter, then finally to me.
For one terrifying second, I expected fear to appear on her face.
Instead, she frowned.
Not because I was hurt.
Because I was still conscious.
“What happened?” she asked.
“She fought me,” Brianna said. “The verification failed.”
Patricia’s lips tightened.
“I told you not to lose your temper.”
“She called the documents fraudulent.”
“They are fraudulent,” I whispered.
My voice barely carried across the kitchen.
Patricia looked down at me.
“You always did think you were smarter than everyone else, Evelyn.”
Hearing my name in that calm, contemptuous tone made something inside me go cold.
I had spent seven years trying to earn this woman’s acceptance.
Seven years remembering her birthday, hosting holidays, sitting beside her during medical appointments, pretending not to hear the cruel remarks she delivered whenever Ryan left the room.
Too ambitious.
Too independent.
Too ordinary for a Brooks.
When I became pregnant after three years of fertility treatments, she had not hugged me.
She had said, “Let’s hope they look like Ryan.”
Now she stood over me while my babies were fighting to stay alive.
“You need to call an ambulance,” I said. “The twins are early.”
Patricia glanced at the clock above the refrigerator.
“If an ambulance arrives now, the police may follow.”
Brianna swallowed. “So what do we do?”
Patricia thought for only a moment.
“We leave.”
My blood turned colder.
Brianna stared at her. “She saw us.”
“She is in pain. She may not remember clearly.”
“I remember everything,” I said.
Patricia’s gaze snapped toward me.
“You fell,” she said slowly. “You were alone. You attempted to access the trust because you were under emotional stress, and then you slipped.”
“The camera recorded you.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Silence filled the kitchen.
Brianna looked toward the pantry.
Patricia followed her gaze.
The tiny camera sat above the upper cabinet, its green indicator light glowing steadily.
Brianna’s face drained of color.
“You said there weren’t cameras in here.”
“I didn’t know about that one,” Patricia replied.
Brianna grabbed a wooden chair and dragged it toward the pantry.
“No,” Patricia said sharply. “Do not smash it. That will look deliberate.”
“It uploads to the cloud,” I whispered. “You can destroy the whole house. It won’t erase what you did.”
For the first time, Patricia’s calm expression cracked.
She crossed the kitchen and crouched beside me.
The scent of her expensive perfume made my stomach turn.
“Where does the footage go?”
I said nothing.
She gripped my chin.
“Where does it go, Evelyn?”
A sudden contraction ripped through my body.
I cried out, twisting onto my side.
Patricia released me as though my pain were an inconvenience.
Brianna began pacing.
“We need to get her thumb again. Maybe the lock resets.”
“It won’t,” I gasped. “The failed biometric attempt froze the trust.”
“You’re lying.”
“I designed the security protocol.”
Brianna kicked my phone beneath the cabinet again.
“This is all your fault!”
She moved toward me, but Patricia blocked her path.
“No more hitting her.”
“Why? She’s ruining everything.”
“Because if she dies here, we will have a much larger problem.”
The way she said it—coldly, practically—made me realize that neither woman saw me as family.
I was paperwork.
A witness.
An obstacle between them and $150,000.
Patricia reached into her handbag and removed her own phone.
For one hopeful second, I thought she might finally call emergency services.
Instead, she dialed someone else.
“It failed,” she said when the person answered. “The account locked. There is camera footage.”
She listened.
Her expression hardened.
“No, Ryan does not know yet.”
Another pause.
“Then handle it.”
She ended the call.
Brianna stopped pacing.
“Who was that?”
Patricia ignored her.
I forced myself to focus through the pain.
“Who else is involved?”
Neither woman answered.
Another contraction came, stronger than the last. Pressure built low in my abdomen. My body was moving toward labor whether anyone helped me or not.
I tried to reach the cabinet, hoping I could pull myself closer to my phone.
Brianna noticed.
She planted her shoe against my shoulder and shoved me backward.
“Stay down.”
Patricia looked toward the hallway.
“We need to move her.”
“Where?”
“The basement.”
Brianna stared at her mother. “Are you serious?”
“If the neighbor heard anything, she may come over. We cannot have Evelyn visible from the windows.”
The Brooks house had a finished basement with a guest room, home theater, and exterior door leading to the backyard. Ryan and I rarely used it.
I understood immediately.
They could place me downstairs.
Leave through the rear entrance.
Then claim they had never been there.
“No,” I whispered.
Brianna grabbed my wrists.
Panic gave me a burst of strength.
I fought her, kicking against the floor, but another contraction stole the power from my legs.
Patricia seized my ankles.
Together, they began dragging me toward the hallway.
My shoulder struck the edge of the kitchen island.
White light flashed across my vision.
I screamed.
Not only from pain.
From rage.
From betrayal.
From the horrifying realization that my children’s grandmother was helping drag their injured mother away like garbage.
As they pulled me past the pantry, I fixed my eyes on the camera.
Please keep recording.
Please send the footage.
Please let somebody see.
My fingers scraped across the floor as I tried to catch hold of anything.
A chair leg.
The edge of a rug.
The hallway molding.
Nothing stopped them.
Then a sound came from the front of the house.
Three sharp knocks.
Everyone froze.
“Evelyn?” a woman called. “It’s Dana from next door.”
My neighbor.
My salvation.
Brianna covered my mouth.
Patricia lifted one finger to her lips.
“Evelyn?” Dana called again. “I heard screaming.”
I tried to bite Brianna’s palm.
She pressed harder, blocking my air.
Patricia walked quietly toward the front door.
I heard the deadbolt slide open.
“Dana,” Patricia said brightly. “What a surprise.”
“I thought I heard Evelyn shouting.”
“Oh, she isn’t home.”
My heart pounded.
Dana hesitated. “Her car is in the driveway.”
“She left with a friend.”
“I could have sworn—”
A contraction tore through me.
I screamed against Brianna’s hand.
The sound came out muffled but unmistakable.
Dana went silent.
Patricia did not.
“That was the television,” she said smoothly.
“No,” Dana replied. “That was Evelyn.”
The front door moved.
Shoes scraped against the entryway floor.
Patricia’s voice sharpened.
“You cannot simply enter someone else’s house.”
“I’m checking on my neighbor.”
Brianna released my mouth and grabbed me beneath the arms.
“We have to move,” she whispered.
Dana called my name again, louder this time.
“EVELYN?”
“HELP!” I screamed.
Brianna slapped her hand over my mouth again.
But it was too late.
Footsteps rushed through the living room.
Patricia tried to stop Dana in the hallway.
Dana appeared around the corner holding her phone in one hand.
Her face changed when she saw me.
“Oh my God.”
Brianna stood over me.
The forged papers were scattered across the kitchen.
Fluid and blood stained the hardwood.
Dana’s phone was already raised.
“I’m calling 911.”
Patricia moved toward her.
“This is a family matter.”
Dana backed away.
“This is an assault.”
“Put the phone down.”
“No.”
Brianna lunged for Dana.
Dana ran toward the front door, shouting our address into the phone.
Patricia turned to her daughter.
“Get the documents.”
Brianna snatched the folder from the counter.
“Leave through the garage,” Patricia ordered.
“What about her?”
Patricia looked at me one final time.
There was no sympathy in her eyes.
Only calculation.
“She fell.”
Then the two women ran.
I heard the garage door open, tires squealing, and Dana rushing back into the kitchen.
She knelt beside me but did not touch my stomach.
“Evelyn, the ambulance is coming.”
“My babies,” I sobbed. “Please save my babies.”
“You’re not alone. Stay with me.”
Sirens rose in the distance.
Dana removed her sweater and placed it beneath my head.
My body shook violently.
“Ryan,” I whispered. “Call Ryan.”
“I will.”
“Tell him Patricia planned it.”
Dana’s face tightened.
“I heard her. I saw Brianna.”
“The camera,” I said. “Above the pantry. Tell the police.”
The sirens grew louder.
A final contraction ripped through me so powerfully that I nearly blacked out.
Then, through the open front door, red and blue lights flooded the walls.
Paramedics rushed inside with equipment.
One of them checked my pulse.
Another placed an oxygen mask over my face.
“Eight months pregnant with twins,” Dana told them. “Her water broke after an assault.”
The room blurred into uniforms, questions, and hands carefully lifting me onto a stretcher.
As they carried me through the front door, I looked toward the driveway.
Patricia and Brianna were gone.
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But the camera was still recording.
And somewhere thousands of miles away, my husband was about to learn that the two people he trusted most had nearly killed his wife and children.
