Chapter 3

Then, the familiar sickness in the mornings.

The dread that settled in my stomach had nothing to do with nausea.

Pregnant. Again.

The thirteenth time.

I knew he was drugging me. Small, tasteless additions to my food, my water.

Just enough to ensure conception.

When I told him, his face lit up with a grotesque joy.

"Wonderful, Sarah! Wonderful!"

He caressed my still-flat stomach, his eyes gleaming.

The same eyes that would later watch, cold and distant, as he took this new life away.

I couldn' t let it happen again. Not this time.

I found a women' s health clinic in the phone book, miles away in another town.

I saved up cash, little bits here and there, hidden in a loose floorboard.

The day I went, I told Michael I was visiting an old school friend.

The clinic was quiet, discreet. I filled out the forms, my hand trembling.

"I need an abortion," I whispered to the kind-faced nurse.

She nodded, no judgment in her eyes.

But as I waited, the door to the clinic burst open.

Michael.

And behind him, John and Mary.

"There she is, officer," Michael said, not to a police officer, but to the clinic director who rushed out. "My wife. She's not well. She's delusional."

Mary stepped forward, her face a mask of concern. "She's been saying the most awful things, about our grandchildren. Imagining things. It's her mental state, doctor. She needs help, not this."

John, the former police captain, nodded gravely. "She' s a danger to herself."

They were so convincing. So concerned.

The clinic staff looked at me, then at them.

My protests, my desperate pleas that they were the ones who were mad, sounded like ravings.

They led me away, Michael' s arm around me, a mockery of comfort.

"It's alright, my love," he murmured, loud enough for the staff to hear. "We'll get you home. We'll take care of you."

His eyes, when they met mine, were cold, triumphant.

He was the loving husband, the concerned protector.

And I was the madwoman.

The man who risked his life to save me from that long-ago accident. That memory felt like a lifeline, but it was fraying, thin.

How could that hero be this monster?

I wanted to scream at him, "What about the babies? What about our babies?"

But he would just smile that gentle, terrible smile and say, "It' s for the best, Sarah."

His control was absolute.