The doorbell rang.
Once.
Sharp.
For a moment, I thought I imagined it.
Another contraction tore through me so violently that my vision blurred. I collapsed against the side of the couch, clutching my stomach.
Then the bell rang again.
Whoever was outside wasn’t leaving.
I dragged myself across the floor, every movement sending agony through my body. The front door looked miles away.
When I finally reached it and unlocked the deadbolt, I barely managed to pull it open.
A man in a dark uniform stood on the porch.
Not a police officer.
A paramedic.
Behind him sat an ambulance.
Relief hit me so hard I nearly cried.
“Oh my God…”
The paramedic immediately noticed the condition I was in.
“Ma’am, are you alone?”
I nodded.
His expression changed instantly.
Within seconds, two more medics rushed inside with equipment.
One looked down and cursed under his breath.
There was blood on the floor.
Not a small amount.
A dangerous amount.
“What happened?”
“My husband…” I gasped. “He left.”
The medics exchanged looks.
One of them immediately grabbed his radio.
“Dispatch, we have a high-risk twin pregnancy, possible emergency delivery. Patient appears abandoned and is showing signs of severe distress.”
Abandoned.
The word echoed inside my head.
Because that was exactly what had happened.
They loaded me onto a stretcher.
As they wheeled me out of the house, I looked back at the living room.
The scattered medical papers.
The soaked carpet.
The overturned chair.
The trail of blood leading from the kitchen.
It already looked like a crime scene.
And nobody had even discovered the worst part yet.
Three hours later.
Mercy General Hospital.
Operating Room 4.
