Every night, my husband dragged me into our garage, pressed a lit cigarette against my pregnant belly, and told me he would kill both me and our unborn child so he could take the house, the money, and the insurance with his new girlfriend. His mother stood beside him, handing him fresh cigarettes and urging him to finish it—but neither of them realized a neighbor had been recording everything.
Chapter 1: The Sound of the Click
The garage smelled like a tomb—a toxic cocktail of stale tobacco, motor oil, and damp, cold concrete.
I leaned my back against the brick wall, my body trembling so violently that my teeth clicked together. I wrapped both arms tightly around my seven-month-pregnant belly, shielding my unborn child with the only defense I had left: my own flesh.
My husband, Arthur, stood three feet away. His shadow stretched long and grotesque under the flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. In his right hand, he held a silver Zippo lighter.
Snap. Click.
The tiny flame flared, illuminating the cold, hollow look in his eyes. I had learned to fear that mechanical sound more than the heavy thud of his footsteps coming down the hallway. The click meant the ritual was beginning.
Beside him stood his mother, Evelyn. She didn't look horrified. She didn't look away. She stood with her arms crossed over her crisp wool cardigan, watching me as if supervising a routine household chore.
"Do it faster, Arthur," Evelyn said, her voice dry, devoid of any human emotion. "She’s getting weaker. If she dies before the weekend, everything goes to you cleanly. The estate, the bank accounts, the payout. We don't have all month."
"Please..." My voice was a broken whisper, rasping against a throat raw from crying. "Arthur, please. Take the house. Take my father’s money. Take the insurance policy. I’ll sign whatever you want. Just don't hurt my baby."
Arthur let out a low, bitter laugh. "Sign? You think a judge won't question a pregnant woman signing over millions of dollars to her husband right before a divorce? No, Clara. Dead wives don't contest wills. And dead babies don't inherit trusts."
He stepped forward, bringing the glowing, orange tip of his freshly lit cigarette down onto my swollen abdomen.
Pain—sharp, white-hot, and blinding—shot through my entire nervous system. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. The burns from yesterday hadn't even had time to blister over; they were swollen, raw, and weeping against the fabric of my oversized sweatshirt. I wore the same gray hoodie every single day because my skin was too destroyed to bear anything else touching it.
"Hold her still, Mother," Arthur muttered, leaning closer. "She's squirming too much."
Evelyn stepped in, her cold, bony fingers digging into my shoulders, pinning me against the concrete wall. "Look at me, Clara," she whispered, her breath smelling of peppermint and acid. "You were never supposed to be part of this family. You were just the vault."
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms into my belly, praying to a God I wasn't sure was listening. Just protect the baby, I bargained silently in the dark of my mind. Take my skin, take my breath, but let my baby live.
May you like
Escape was a fantasy. Arthur had taken my phone weeks ago. Evelyn watched the front and back doors like a hawk. Whenever a car slowed down on our quiet suburban street, they both froze in total silence until the headlights faded into the night. They were careful. They were patient.
They were killing me inch by inch, and nobody in the world knew I was dying.
