Chapter 3: The Wrong Kind of Visitors
Marcus stood up before either of them crossed the threshold.
"You need to leave."
My mother's expression didn't change.
"She's my daughter.
We have every right—"
"You have no rights in this room." His voice was the same voice he'd used at the house.
Quiet.
Immovable.
"Turn around and walk out, or I call the nurse and have security remove you."
My sister, Diane, looked past him at me.
Her eyes were red, but not from crying.
From something else.
Calculation, maybe.
Or fear that had nowhere left to go.
"I just want to know she's okay," Diane said.
"You kicked her in the stomach." Marcus didn't raise his voice.
"You don't get to ask how she is."
My mother stepped forward anyway.
"Marcus, this is a family matter—"
"It stopped being a family matter when the police took statements in our front yard." He moved to block her fully.
"Leave.
Now."
A nurse appeared in the doorway behind them.
She took one look at Marcus's face and reached for the wall phone without being asked.
They left.
The door closed.
I realized I'd been holding my breath since they walked in.
I let it out slowly, and my hands were shaking against the blanket.
"Marcus."
"I know." He came back to the chair beside me and took both my hands.
"I know."
"She still hasn't moved."
He didn't say it would be fine.
I loved him for that.
He just held my hands and didn't let go.
Twenty minutes later, Dr.
Okafor came in.
She was a small woman with a calm face that I immediately understood meant she had delivered bad news before and knew how to carry it into a room without dropping it.
"The fetal monitor is showing some irregularity," she said.
"We're going to do an ultrasound now.
I want to see exactly what we're dealing with before I tell you anything definitive."
"Is she alive?" I asked.
Dr.
Okafor met my eyes.
"Yes.
Her heartbeat is present.
It's not where I want it, but she is there."
I closed my eyes.
"The tox screen," Marcus said.
"What did you find?"
Dr.
Okafor pulled the curtain fully closed and lowered her voice.
"We found elevated levels of a compound called misoprostol.
It's a medication.
In the right context, doctors use it for specific purposes.
In the wrong context—" She paused.
"In the wrong context, it can cause premature labor or miscarriage."
The word landed in the room like something dropped from a height.
"Someone gave it to her," Marcus said.
It wasn't a question.
"The levels in her bloodwork are not consistent with accidental exposure.
We've contacted the police.
There will be a detective here within the hour."
I looked at the ceiling.
The fluorescent light above me had a small crack running through the plastic cover.
I stared at it because I needed something to stare at that wasn't moving.
"How long?" I asked.
"How long has it been in my system?"
"Based on what we're seeing, we believe exposure began somewhere between two and four weeks ago.
In small amounts.
Cumulative."
Two to four weeks.
Every Sunday dinner.
Every cup of tea my mother pressed into my hands.
Every glass of juice Diane had brought me with that smile.
"They planned this," Marcus said quietly.
Dr.
Okafor didn't answer that.
She was a doctor, not a detective.
But she didn't deny it either.
She left to prepare the ultrasound equipment.
Marcus waited until the door clicked shut.
Then he picked up his phone and made a call.
"It's me," he said.
"I need you to pull everything you have on the Holt family trust.
Tonight.
Yes, all of it." A pause.
"Because someone just tried to end my daughter's life for it, and I want to know exactly what she was worth to them."
He hung up and looked at me.
I already knew the answer.
Grandma Ruth's trust had a clause.
If I produced a living child before my thirty-second birthday, the controlling share of the estate transferred to me permanently.
Not to my parents.
Not to Diane.
To me.
My birthday was eleven weeks away.
May you like
My daughter was six months from being born.
And someone in my family had done the math.
