At 5:15 PM, the front door finally opened.
“Mia? Are you okay? Your car is parked weirdly outside,” David’s voice echoed from the hallway.
I stepped out of the bedroom, cradling my right arm. The moment David saw my pale face, the tear streaks, and the heavy white gauze wrapping my bicep, his briefcase hit the floor with a heavy thud.
He crossed the distance between us in three massive strides, his hands hovering over me, afraid to touch the injury. “What happened? Are you hurt? Is the baby okay?”
“The baby is fine,” I choked out, leaning my forehead against his chest. “But Martha… David, Martha came onto the porch.”
I poured out the entire humiliating, terrifying story. I told him about the delivery, the argument over the cardboard, the tug-of-war, and the horrifying moment she swung the golf club. I told him how she stole the breast pump my sister had sent and crushed it in the compactor. Finally, I choked on a sob as I relayed her threat to call CPS and have our baby taken away.
David’s entire body went rigid. The loving, analytical scientist I married vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying fury I had never seen before. His jaw clenched so tight I heard his teeth grind.
“She threatened to take our child,” David whispered, the words dripping with absolute venom. “And she hit you with a weapon.”
“David, please,” I pleaded, grabbing his shirt with my good hand as he turned toward the front door. “Don’t go over there. She said she has the CPS director on speed dial. She has money, David. She’ll twist this. She’ll destroy us.”
“She’s not touching my family,” David said, his voice eerily calm. He gently guided me to the couch. “Sit down. I’m pulling the security footage.”
Our house was equipped with high-definition cameras covering every inch of the front property, installed securely under the eaves. David opened his laptop, typing furiously. Within seconds, the timestamped video from 2:14 PM popped onto the screen.
We watched in silence as the whole nightmare played out. The high-definition audio picked up every threat. We watched Martha lunge. We watched her swing the club. We watched my body hit the deck. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to watch myself fall again.
“She took the box,” David muttered, his eyes glued to the screen as Martha marched away. He hit the spacebar, freezing the video just as Martha tucked the cardboard package under her arm.
“I know,” I cried quietly. “I know it was expensive, David. I’ll text Sarah and tell her what happened. Maybe she can get a refund for the breast pump.”
David didn't answer. He was staring intensely at the frozen frame on his laptop. He pressed a key, digitally zooming in on the brown box tucked under Martha’s arm. The resolution cleared up, revealing a thick stripe of bright red security tape sealing the edges, and a massive barcode sticker bearing a distinct eagle emblem.
David’s face drained of color. He went from angry to completely, terrifyingly pale in the span of three seconds. He slowly turned his head to look at me, his eyes wide with a frantic, uncharacteristic panic.
“Mia,” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Which box did she take?”
CHAPTER 3
The question hung in the quiet living room, heavy and confusing.
“I just told you,” I said, wincing as I shifted my injured arm. “The breast pump. The one your sister, Sarah, was shipping from Seattle.”