The security guard’s voice trembled when he phoned me.
“Ma’am, you need to come to level three right now.”
I was seven months pregnant, still clutching the ultrasound image of my daughter’s face as I stepped out of the maternity clinic. Just ten minutes earlier, I had been watching her tiny profile on the monitor, hearing the doctor reassure me that everything looked perfect. By the time I reached the parking garage, that sense of perfection had vanished.
My silver SUV looked like it had been torn apart by a mob.
Every window was smashed. All four tires had been slashed. Red paint streamed down the windshield like blood. Someone had carved words into the hood so deeply the metal curled along the edges.
Homewrecker.
Baby trap.
He’s mine.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. Then my eyes landed on the baby car seat in the back.
Or what remained of it.
The foam had been ripped open. The straps were severed. Whoever did this hadn’t just meant to frighten me. She wanted to send a message to my unborn daughter too.
My knees nearly buckled, but the security guard caught my elbow and eased me into a chair. My baby kicked sharply inside me, frantic and strong, as if she could feel my fear. I pressed both hands to my stomach and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Two officers arrived within minutes. Detective Sarah Morrison crouched in front of me, glanced at my belly, then at the wrecked car, her expression turning cold.
“This wasn’t random,” she said. “Do you know who did this?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to stay in that soft, foolish place where terrible things happen without names attached to them. But deep down, I already knew. For months, I had sensed the way my husband’s assistant looked at me, like I didn’t belong in my own life. I had felt Derek pulling away. I had known there was another woman behind the late meetings, the sudden passwords, the silence at dinner.
The security guard brought over a tablet.
“We have footage,” he said quietly.
The video was clear. Painfully clear.
A blonde woman in designer athleisure stepped into frame carrying a leather tote. She pulled out a tire iron and smashed my windows one by one without hesitation. Then she scratched the hood, spray-painted the windshield, tore apart the baby seat, and—God help me—took selfies with the wreckage, smiling.
She turned just enough for me to see her face.
Brittany Kane.
My husband’s assistant.
My husband’s mistress.
