Chapter 3 - The Cover-UpThe ride to the Urgent Care clinic in St. Jude’s County was forty minutes of psychological warfare.
Patricia drove her silver sedan with mechanical precision, staring straight at the highway while I sat in the passenger seat, gripping a bag of melting ice cubes against my blistering shoulder. Every bump in the road sent lightning bolts of agony shooting down my nervous system.
“You have to understand Ryan’s position, Claire,” Patricia said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “He’s under an enormous amount of stress. Men act out when their livelihood is threatened. A good wife understands that.”
“He shoved a pregnant woman into boiling liquid, Patricia,” I said through gritted teeth, my gaze fixed on the passing pine trees outside the window. “That isn't 'acting out.' That’s assault.”
Patricia let out a soft, dismissive sigh. “You’ve always had such a flair for the dramatic. You slipped. That is the story. If you tell the doctors anything else, the police will get involved. Ryan will be arrested, his credit will be completely destroyed, and this family will be ruined. Is that what you want for your daughter? To be born to a father in jail?”
“He belongs in jail,” I stated clearly.
Patricia slammed her hand against the steering wheel, turning her head to glare at me with terrifying intensity.
“Listen to me, you ungrateful little brat,” she hissed. “My son sacrificed his young years staying in this boring town for you! You think that house makes you special? It’s a heap of rotting wood! If you try to destroy my son, I will make sure you don't have a dime left to fight us in custody court. I have connections in this county. Do not test me.”
I didn't answer. I simply tightened my grip on the melting bag of ice, feeling the cold water trickle down my dress.
Patricia thought she held all the cards. She thought I was isolated, helpless, and terrified. She didn't know that every threat she uttered only hardened the titanium core my father had built inside me.
When we arrived at the Urgent Care, the triage nurse took one look at my shoulder and immediately rushed me into an exam room. The second-degree burns covered nearly fifteen percent of my upper left torso and arm. Red, weeping blisters had already formed across my skin.
Doctor Vance, a stern woman in her fifties, examined the injury while a nurse hooked me up to a fetal monitor.
The steady, rapid thump-thump-thump of my baby’s heartbeat filled the quiet room. Tears finally spilled over my eyelashes—not from the physical pain of the burn cream being applied, but from the overwhelming relief that my baby girl was alive.
“How did this happen, Mrs. Vance?” Doctor Vance asked, her eyes searching mine as she carefully wrapped my arm in sterile gauze.
Beside the bed, Patricia stepped forward instantly, wrapping a warm, motherly arm around my uninjured shoulder.
“Oh, doctor, it was terrible,” Patricia lied effortlessly, her eyes glistening with fake tears. “She was cooking soup for lunch and had a sudden dizzy spell—you know how hard these late-stage pregnancy spells can be. She lost her footing and caught the pot handle on her way down.”
Doctor Vance didn't look at Patricia. She kept her eyes locked on me.
“Claire?” the doctor asked softly. “Is that what happened?”
I felt Patricia’s fingers dig subtly into my collarbone—a silent, threatening warning.
I looked at the doctor, then at the fetal monitor speaker transmitting my daughter's heartbeat. If I accused Ryan right now, in front of Patricia, without immediate access to my home or the footage, Patricia would alert Ryan immediately. He would go home, discover the camera, destroy the attic drive, and wipe every trace of evidence before the police could ever secure a search warrant.
I needed that footage safe before I struck back.
“Yes,” I lied, my voice steady despite the burn in my throat. “I lost my balance.”
Doctor Vance hesitated, clearly suspicious, but she nodded slowly. “We’re going to keep you here for observation for four hours to monitor the baby’s heart rate and give you IV fluids.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Patricia said sweetly.
As soon as the doctor left the room, Patricia leaned down to my ear. “Good girl, Claire. You’re finally learning how to behave.”
May you like
I closed my eyes, letting her think she had won.
Just wait, Patricia, I thought. Just wait until I get home.
