"Miller," he answered immediately, the background noise silent this time.
"She's calling the sheriff," I choked out, tears of pain and panic finally spilling over my cheeks. "Evelyn. She was in my backyard. She told me she formally requested a municipal inspection and a police welfare check for tomorrow morning. Miller, my water is going to break. I’m having contractions. They’re ten minutes apart."
"Dammit," Miller swore softly. "Okay. Clara, listen to my voice. Breathe."
"I can't breathe!" I sobbed, the emotional dam finally breaking. "My husband is dead! I've lost everything! And now some arrogant, miserable woman is going to ruin the only safe place I have left just because I didn't fit into her country club neighborhood!"
"Clara, stop," Miller commanded, his voice projecting the absolute authority of a federal agent. "We are out of time. If a county sheriff knocks on your door tomorrow, your alias gets flagged in the state database. We cannot risk the cartel getting that ping. I am activating protocol Omega. Pack your go-bag. You have to leave tonight."
"No," I pleaded, sinking into the chair. "Please, Miller, I can't travel. I need a hospital."
"We have secure medical facilities at the extraction point," Miller said. "I am dispatching the armored transport unit right now. They will arrive at your side garage door at exactly midnight. Leave the lights off. Do not carry anything except the emergency bag. Do you understand?"
"Miller..."
"Do you understand, Clara?"
"Yes," I whispered.
The line went dead.
I spent the next six hours in a state of dissociative grief. The physical pain was a rhythmic tide, surging every eight to ten minutes, forcing me to stop and lean against the walls until it passed. I walked slowly up the stairs to the nursery.
The walls were painted a soft, calming sage green. A white changing table stood against the wall, perfectly stocked with diapers, wipes, and tiny onesies washed in unscented detergent. I had spent hours sitting in the rocking chair by the window, dreaming of a quiet life where my daughter would never know the terror that had consumed my past.
I had to abandon it all.
I grabbed the black canvas duffel bag from the closet and began stuffing my few absolute necessities into it. Medical records, the emergency cash envelope Miller had provided, a change of clothes, and the few items I had bought for the baby.
At eleven-thirty, the house was entirely dark. The only illumination came from the streetlights filtering through the blinds. The contractions had intensified, leaving me breathless and exhausted. I sat on the edge of the couch in the living room, waiting for the extraction team.
My eyes fell on the heavy cherry wood cradle sitting in the center of the room.
I couldn't leave it. It was David’s hands. It was the only thing my daughter would ever have from her father. Miller had said to bring nothing but the bag, but the cradle was small enough to fit in the back of the transport van. I convinced myself I could carry it to the garage.
I gripped the wooden sides and lifted it. It was heavy, and my compromised center of gravity made me clumsy. As I shifted my weight, the edge of the cradle slammed hard against the front door, making a loud, hollow thud in the quiet foyer.
Almost instantly, the motion-sensor light on the front porch flared on, casting harsh white light through the frosted glass panels of the door.
I froze, holding my breath.