Inside were printed articles about prenatal psychosis, clinic forms, highlighted paragraphs, and a falsified document with my name listed as the primary contact.
The date.
Three days ago.
My stomach dropped.
This wasn’t just cruelty.
It was a plan.
Ashley took a step back.
“That’s not what it looks like—”
I pulled out my phone.
“You’re going to explain exactly what it looks like to the police.”
The second I dialed, her expression snapped.
“Don’t pretend you care now!” she spat. “You were never here! I did what that woman needed. Someone had to keep order in this house.”
Lily let out a broken sob behind me.
I turned on speaker.
“Hello. I need officers and an ambulance immediately. My pregnant wife is being abused in my home. The person responsible is still here.”
Ashley bolted toward the kitchen.
I followed.
She reached for her bag, but I got there first and kicked it aside. She tried to push past me. I blocked the doorway without touching her.
“Not one more step.”
“You can’t keep me here!”
“And you couldn’t torture my wife.”
Her expression changed.
The fear disappeared.
What replaced it was something colder.