Chapter 3 - The Empty Nursery
The doctor refused to discharge me.
I argued until my voice turned hoarse, but the contractions had not completely stopped, and the baby’s heart rate still spiked whenever I moved too quickly.
“You sustained significant abdominal trauma,” Dr. Patel told me. “Going home tonight would be dangerous.”
“My husband broke into my house.”
“The police are investigating.”
“It is his house too.”
Dr. Patel hesitated.
That was the problem.
Everything legally belonged to both of us. The house. The cars. The accounts.
Even the nursery where I had spent months folding tiny clothes while David mocked me for wasting time.
The police officer introduced himself as Detective Samuel Ortega. He sat near the foot of my bed while Wyatt remained by the window.
“The alarm company logged entry through the garage,” Ortega said. “A code was used.”
“David knows the code.”
“So do you.”
I looked at him sharply.
“Are you suggesting I left a hospital bed and broke into my own house?”
“I’m establishing facts.”
Wyatt folded his arms.
“The fact is her husband was released less than an hour before the alarm.”
Ortega turned toward him.
“And you are?”
“The witness who stopped him from hitting her again.”
The detective’s expression softened slightly.
He returned his attention to me.
“Patrol officers found the nursery drawers emptied onto the floor. The crib mattress had been cut open. The closet wall was damaged.”
“Was anything taken?”
“That’s what we need you to determine.”
I closed my eyes and pictured the nursery.
The pale green walls.
The wooden rocking chair my mother had left me.
The row of children’s books I had bought one at a time so David would not notice the cost.
The framed ultrasound photograph above the changing table.
“Did they take the silver music box?”
Ortega checked his notes.
“No music box was listed.”
“It was in the closet.”
“What did it contain?”
“Nothing.”
Wyatt looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
I thought about the music box.
It had belonged to my mother, who died two years before I met David. The key had been missing since childhood, so it had never played.
When I became pregnant, I placed it in the nursery because it was one of the few things I had left from her.
“It was empty,” I said.
But even as I answered, I remembered something strange.
Two months earlier, David had found me polishing it.
He had taken it from my hands and examined the bottom.
His face had changed.
Only for a second.
Then he called it worthless and told me to throw it away.
I had hidden it behind a stack of blankets instead.
“The key,” I whispered.
Wyatt followed my gaze to the brass key on the bedside table.
“You think it fits the music box?”
“I don’t know.”
Detective Ortega reached for an evidence bag.
“I’ll need to take that.”
Wyatt placed his hand over the key before the detective could touch it.
“With respect, Detective, your department investigated my sister’s death.”
Ortega’s jaw tightened.
“I did not.”
“But someone did. They called it an accident and closed the case in forty-eight hours.”
“I understand your concern.”
“No, you understand procedure. Concern is what happens when your sister calls you crying because she found evidence against a powerful man, then ends up wrapped around a tree.”
The room went silent.
Ortega removed his hand from the evidence bag.
“I’ll photograph the key,” he said. “Mrs. Mercer can retain it for now.”
My phone rang.
This time, the caller ID displayed my father-in-law’s name.
Charles Mercer.
I stared at it until the ringing stopped.
A voicemail notification appeared.
Then another call came from David’s mother.
Then a text.
You need to correct this misunderstanding before you destroy your family.
A second message followed.
David says you lost your balance. Tell the police the truth.
I handed the phone to Ortega.
He read the messages.
“Do not respond.”
Another message appeared before he could give the phone back.
Think about what stress can do to an unborn child.
Wyatt’s expression hardened.
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It sounds like Susan Mercer,” I said.
For years, she had delivered threats with the soft voice of a woman discussing weather.
Detective Ortega photographed the messages.
“We can add these to the protection-order request.”
“Will a piece of paper stop him?”
“No,” Ortega said honestly. “But violating it gives us additional grounds to arrest him.”
The door opened, and the victim advocate entered.
Her name was Denise, a small woman with silver hair and calm eyes. She explained emergency shelters, confidential addresses, and financial assistance.
Financial assistance.
The phrase made shame burn through me.
David earned almost half a million dollars a year, yet I did not have enough money in my own name to pay for a hotel room.
He controlled every account.
He gave me a weekly grocery allowance.
He required photographs of receipts.
When I needed maternity clothes, he told me to sell old jewelry.
I had once been a graphic designer. I had clients, savings, and plans.
Then David convinced me to stop working because my career embarrassed him.
By the time I understood that dependence was the goal, every door had already closed.
Denise must have seen something in my face.
“Financial abuse is still abuse,” she said quietly.
I nodded.
A nurse entered with an update.
“The baby is stable. Dr. Patel wants to continue monitoring overnight.”
Detective Ortega stood.
“I’m going to inspect the house personally.”
“I want to go with you,” Wyatt said.
“No.”
“My sister’s key may open something inside that nursery.”
“And that makes you emotionally involved.”
“I’ve been emotionally involved for six years.”
Ortega glanced between us.
Finally, he said, “Wait in the hospital. I’ll call.”
He left.
Wyatt settled into the chair near the door.
“You don’t have to stay,” I told him.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because David knows you’re alone.”
The truth of that statement hurt more than I expected.
I turned toward the dark window.
For most of my marriage, I had believed loneliness was something I needed to hide. Wyatt said it like evidence.
Two hours passed.
Then three.
At midnight, Detective Ortega called.
Wyatt placed the phone on speaker.
“I found the music box,” Ortega said.
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“In the alley behind the house. Someone smashed it.”
“Was there anything inside?”
“A folded photograph and a storage receipt.”
Wyatt leaned forward.
“What photograph?”
“There are four people standing outside a bank. Rachel Hale is one of them.”
I looked at Wyatt.
His face lost all color.
“Who are the others?”
“David Mercer, Charles Mercer, and a woman we haven’t identified.”
“What storage receipt?” I asked.
“It’s for a private vault company downtown. Box 317.”
Wyatt took the brass key from the table.
“Then we know what this opens.”
Ortega’s voice came through the speaker.
“There’s one more thing. The receipt was issued in your mother’s name.”
I stopped breathing.
“My mother died nine years ago.”
“I know.”
“That’s impossible.”
“The account has been active ever since.”
Wyatt looked down at the key.
“Who has been paying for it?”
Ortega paused.
“According to the receipt, the most recent payment was made yesterday.”
The monitor beside me began beeping faster.
“By whom?”
May you like
The detective’s answer came quietly.
“By David.”
