The security guard’s voice trembled when he phoned me.
“Ma’am, you need to come to level three right now.”
I was seven months pregnant, still clutching the ultrasound image of my daughter’s face as I stepped out of the maternity clinic. Just ten minutes earlier, I had been watching her tiny profile on the monitor, hearing the doctor reassure me that everything looked perfect. By the time I reached the parking garage, that sense of perfection had vanished.
My silver SUV looked like it had been torn apart by a mob.
Every window was smashed. All four tires had been slashed. Red paint streamed down the windshield like blood. Someone had carved words into the hood so deeply the metal curled along the edges.
Homewrecker.
Baby trap.
He’s mine.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. Then my eyes landed on the baby car seat in the back.
Or what remained of it.
The foam had been ripped open. The straps were severed. Whoever did this hadn’t just meant to frighten me. She wanted to send a message to my unborn daughter too.
My knees nearly buckled, but the security guard caught my elbow and eased me into a chair. My baby kicked sharply inside me, frantic and strong, as if she could feel my fear. I pressed both hands to my stomach and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“This wasn’t random,” she said. “Do you know who did this?”
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