The countryside outside Santa Rosa had been painfully quiet all afternoon, the kind of vast silence that was the only thing keeping Marisol upright after six hours of walking. Then the stillness shattered under the violent roar of an engine tearing down the dirt road.
She felt the vibration before she saw the car. Her heart, already pounding from exhaustion, seemed to freeze. “Please, God… not now,” she whispered, throat raw from dust. Her arms ached from carrying four babies at once, but she tightened her hold instinctively.
The quadruplets stirred—tiny, warm weights against her chest. Noah whimpered, sensing her fear. Marisol pressed herself against an old fence as if she could disappear into the splintered wood.
There was nowhere to run. Just dry fields behind her and the road ahead. The metallic-blue sports car rounded the curve fast, tires skidding, dust swallowing the last gold of sunset. Brakes screamed. Marisol shut her eyes and bent over the babies, shielding them with her body.
The crash never came.
The engine cut. A door slammed.
She didn’t want to look. She already recognized the scent of expensive cologne and gasoline that followed Daniel whenever he was furious.