Chapter 1 - The Open Line
I took the phone.
Beneath the thin, scratchy hospital blanket, my fingers closed around the warm metal of Dr. Sterling’s device. My thumb moved blindly over the glass screen, feeling for the emergency button she had pre-loaded. I pressed it once. I didn't bring the phone to my ear. I didn't speak. I simply slid it under the curve of my hip, leaving the line wide open so the 911 dispatcher could hear exactly what was about to happen in that room.
If a security camera had captured that frozen, terrifying fraction of a second—you would see the absolute anatomy of a murder being thwarted. In the foreground, there I was in the hospital gown, my face pale, clutching my pregnant belly in terror as Dr. Sterling leaned over me, her eyes wide with urgent, silent instruction. And standing in the doorway behind her, framed like predators waiting for the trap to spring, were Richard and Mildred.
They looked impatient. They looked annoyed.
They did not look like a family expecting a child. They looked like people waiting for a check to clear.
"Is there a problem, Doctor?" Richard’s voice drifted from the doorway, slick and coated in a thin veneer of faux-concern. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The heavy click of the latch sounded like a vault sealing shut.
Dr. Sterling straightened up, her posture instantly shifting from terrified ally to an immovable wall of medical authority. She slid my chart closed with a sharp snap.
"There seems to be an error in the charting, Mr. Reynolds," Dr. Sterling said smoothly, her voice betraying absolutely none of the panic she had just shown me. "The IV medication orders listed here are highly irregular for a standard delivery. In fact, they are contraindicated for a patient with her vitals."
Mildred stepped forward, her camel coat brushing against the rusty medical tray. "Nonsense. The clinic director, Dr. Aris, reviewed her file personally this morning. He authorized a mild sedative and a blood pressure management drip to ease the labor."
Blood pressure management.
My lungs tightened. As a registered nurse, I knew exactly what that meant when paired with the cocktail they had undoubtedly hung on my IV pole. It was a chemical execution. A controlled crash designed to look like a tragic, unavoidable maternal hemorrhage.
"Dr. Aris is an administrator, not an attending obstetrician," Dr. Sterling replied, stepping between the IV pole and my husband. "And I am not hanging this bag. I am initiating a transfer to Fairmont Medical immediately."
May you like
Richard’s face hardened. The polite, empty mask he wore for society parties and golf tournaments melted away, revealing the desperate, ruthless coward beneath.
"You aren't transferring anyone," Richard said, taking a step toward the bed. "My wife is in labor. You are going to hook up that IV, and you are going to do your job."
