Chapter 2 - The Rescue
The silence of Oakcrest Lane was shattered at exactly 10:22 PM by the screaming wail of sirens.
Two police cruisers and an advanced life support ambulance tore through the quiet, wealthy suburb, their red and blue lights reflecting off the manicured lawns and dark windows of the colonial-style homes. They pulled up to the curb of number 412, their tires grinding against the asphalt.
Officer Marcus Vance stepped out of the lead cruiser, his hand instinctively resting on his utility belt as he walked up the paved driveway. Behind him, two paramedics, Sarah and David, hurried with a gurney and a heavy trauma kit.
"Dispatch said the caller reported being locked in from the outside while in active, high-risk labor," Marcus said, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness to illuminate the front porch. "No answer on the callback."
He stepped onto the porch and knocked heavily on the solid wood. "Police! Open the door!"
Nothing but silence inside.
Marcus shone his flashlight through the leaded glass sidelights flanking the door. The beam caught the polished floor of the entryway, and then, further back, the unmistakable glint of dark liquid pooling on the white kitchen tile.
"We've got blood," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a hard, professional register. "Lots of it. Paramedics, stand back. I'm taking the door."
He didn't wait for an override. Marcus stepped back, braced himself, and delivered a massive, targeted kick directly to the seam of the door frame near the deadbolt. The wood splintered, but the reinforced lock held.
"Heavy duty," David, the older paramedic, muttered. "We don't have time for a battering ram, Marcus. She’s bleeding out."
Marcus drew his baton, shattering the glass sidelight next to the door. He reached his arm through the jagged hole, searching for a deadbolt release on the inside. His fingers found the sleek metal casing of the smart lock, but there was no manual thumb-turn—only a blank, smooth surface. It was a digital-only lock, completely dead without an authorized smartphone or physical key.
"Bastard locked her in tight," Marcus growled. "Stand back."
He drew his service weapon, aimed it directly at the steel strike plate of the lock, and fired two precise, deafening rounds into the frame. The wood exploded in a shower of white dust and splinters. Marcus threw his shoulder against the door, and with a loud crack, the frame gave way, the door swinging inward to reveal the dark hallway.
The paramedics rushed past him, their boots clicking loudly on the hardwood before slipping on the wet tile of the kitchen.
"Oh, God," Sarah whispered, dropping to her knees beside Emily’s limp body.
Emily was lying on her side, her face pale as marble, her lips tinged with blue. Her dress was soaked through with blood, and her breathing was so shallow it barely registered on Sarah’s stethoscope.
"We have a massive abruption," Sarah yelled, her hands moving with frantic precision as she tore open a trauma pack. "BP is sixty over thirty. Heart rate is one-forty and dropping. She’s going into hemorrhagic shock. We need to intubate and start high-flow lines immediately!"
"What about the baby?" David asked, pressing a handheld Doppler monitor to Emily’s swollen abdomen.
For three agonizing seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator and the heavy breathing of the rescue team. Then, a faint, rapid, and erratic sound echoed from the speaker: thump... thump... thump...
"Fetal distress," David said, his face grim. "Fetal heart rate is under eighty. We have maybe ten minutes to get them both on an operating table before we lose them both."
"Let's move!" Marcus helped lift Emily onto the gurney, his hands getting covered in the sticky, warm blood that seemed to be everywhere.
As they wheeled her out of the house, the flashing red light of the security camera in the corner of the living room continued to blink, recording every second of the chaos—the broken glass, the blood, the desperate faces of the medics, and the splintered ruin of the front door.
At the Riverfront Grill, Adam was signing the credit card slip for a three-hundred-dollar dinner when his phone vibrated with a priority alert from his security system: Security System Malfunction: Front Door Sensor Disconnected. Glass Break Alarm Triggered.
He frowned, staring at the screen.
"Everything alright, darling?" Diane asked, wrapping her fur coat around her shoulders.
"Yeah," Adam said, though his brow furrowed. "The security system is glitching. It says the front door sensor is disconnected. Emily must have slammed a door or something to get my attention. She's getting desperate."
"Let her be desperate," Chelsea said, laughing as she checked her makeup in a small compact. "It builds character. Honestly, Adam, she needs to learn that she isn't the center of the universe just because she's pregnant."
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"You're right," Adam said, pocketing his phone. He didn't check the live camera feed. If he had, he would have seen the empty, blood-stained kitchen and the police tape already being strung across his front porch. "Let's go back to your place, Mother. I want to see you open the gifts."
"Splendid idea," Diane smiled, her eyes cold and triumphant. "A real family evening."
