Chapter 4

Chloe' s sharp voice cut through his momentary lapse, "She's just mimicking Sarah to get your attention, darling, how vile! She' s a nobody."

Mimicking.

He believed her. Of course, he did.

One of the hunters, on Ethan' s command from the monitor, grabbed a wad of fabric, likely torn from my own clothes, and shoved it brutally into my mouth.

The rough material scraped my throat, gagging me, silencing my screams.

My breath hitched. My asthma. I had severe asthma.

I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened, a vise crushing my lungs.

Panic flared, hotter and more urgent than the pain from the incision.

Just then, a phone rang. Ethan' s, on the monitor.

He answered it, his expression shifting from cold command to sudden, almost manic excitement.

"She's what? Missing from the maternity suite? She' s in labor! Finally!"

He was beaming, oblivious to the butchery happening to me, his actual wife, on his orders.

"Get the best, understand? The most expensive baby supplies. That three-hundred-thousand-a-month post-natal care package we looked at, book it! For Sarah and our son!"

Our son. He was so sure.

The doctor worked with frantic haste, his hands slick with my blood.

The pressure in my abdomen changed.

A small, blood-smeared body was lifted into the air.

A girl. Our daughter.

She was alive. I heard a tiny, weak cry.

Chloe, watching on her own monitor beside Ethan, her face a mask of fury, barked an order to someone off-screen at her location, "Make sure it' s a boy. I have a bet to win."

I saw a gloved hand reach for my baby, then cover her small face.

No. No!

My muted struggles were useless.

"It' s a boy, Ethan darling!" Chloe announced triumphantly to him a moment later. "We won!"

The tiny, still form of my daughter was wrapped in a dirty cloth and tossed aside like garbage.

Discarded.

Ethan, on the phone to his assistant, was jubilant, "Commission a new St. Christopher medal, the biggest one they have, get it blessed. And make a large donation to the children's hospital. In Sarah's name. For our newborn son."

My vital signs, displayed on the screen above me, began to crash.

Dr. Ramirez, his face ashen, looked from me to the discarded bundle, then back to me.

Guilt and horror warred in his eyes.

He made a decision.

He barked orders at the two hunters, who seemed momentarily confused by someone else taking charge. "Get her on that speedboat, now! She' s dying! Call for an ambulance, mainland dock, Pier 7!"

They hesitated, then, perhaps seeing the futility of the "game" now, or perhaps fearing repercussions if I died too soon for Ethan's full "amusement," they complied.

They lifted me onto a crude stretcher.

As they carried me, my hand, no longer bound, slipped from the stretcher' s edge.

The silver locket, my cheap, beloved locket, swung free, glinting faintly in the dimming light.

We reached the dock just as another, far more luxurious speedboat arrived.

Ethan. With Chloe.

He was coming to the island, perhaps to survey his "performance art" firsthand.

He saw the stretcher, saw me.

He saw the glint of silver from my dangling hand.

His eyes fixed on the locket for a microsecond.

"Stop!" he yelled at my bearers. Then to Chloe, his voice softening, "Don't look, Chloe, it's gruesome. Bad luck for our son."

He gestured dismissively at us. "Take her through the service route. We can't have this spoiling the main entrance to the hospital for my wife and newborn son."

My wife.

He still didn't know.