Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE NURSERYBy noon, I had hired a lawyer.

Her name was Julia Bennett.

She listened without interrupting.

The affair.

The hidden account.

The attempted transfer.

The recording.

The anonymous caller.

When I finished, she sat back.

“Claire, I need you to understand something.”

“What?”

“If your husband is attempting to create evidence that you're unstable, do not give him anything.”

I stared at her.

“What kind of evidence?”

“Arguments. Outbursts. Threats. Anything involving the children.”

My stomach tightened.

“So that's why they brought everyone.”

Julia nodded.

“Your mother-in-law and brother-in-law may be witnesses.”

“To what?”

“To whatever story your husband intends to tell.”

The words hit hard.

“What story?”

“That you are emotionally unstable during pregnancy. That you became jealous. That you threatened Vanessa. That you are incapable of parenting.”

I looked away.

It was exactly what Ryan had been preparing.

Julia continued.

“And there's another problem.”

“What?”

“If he has already been telling people you're unstable, he may have been documenting incidents for months.”

I remembered every argument.

Every time he had pushed my buttons.

Every time he'd filmed me crying.

Every time he'd asked, “Are you okay?”

Not because he cared.

Because he wanted proof.

I felt sick.

When I returned home, Ryan wasn't there.

Neither was Vanessa.

Sophie and Ethan were in the living room watching cartoons.

I hugged them both.

“Where's Daddy?”

Sophie shrugged.

“Work.”

“Where's Vanessa?”

“Upstairs.”

I froze.

“Alone?”

Sophie nodded.

I walked upstairs.

The guest room door was open.

Empty.

I checked the bathroom.

Nothing.

Then I heard a sound.

From the nursery.

I opened the door.

Vanessa stood beside the crib.

She was holding the framed ultrasound photograph.

My ultrasound photograph.

I stared at her.

“Put that down.”

She slowly turned.

“You're home.”

“This room is not yours.”

She looked around.

“Not yet.”

I stepped closer.

“Leave.”

She smiled.

“You don't understand, Claire.”

“What don't I understand?”

She put the ultrasound photograph back.

“I know everything about you.”

My stomach tightened.

“What?”

“Your schedule. Your doctor's appointments. Your children's school routine.”

I stared at her.

“How?”

She shrugged.

“Ryan tells me things.”

“You've been spying on me?”

“No.”

She smiled.

“Ryan calls it planning.”

My heart raced.

“Planning for what?”

She walked toward me.

“Your husband believes this marriage is already over.”

I said nothing.

“And he believes the children will be safer with him.”

“Safer?”

“Yes.”

She lowered her voice.

“He says you're unpredictable.”

I laughed.

“I am eight months pregnant.”

“That doesn't help your case.”

She walked past me.

Then stopped.

“Oh.”

She turned around.

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“Your doctor.”

My face changed.

“What about him?”

Vanessa smiled.

“Maybe ask him why Ryan has been calling his office.”

She left.

I stood in the nursery.

My hands were trembling.

I called my doctor's office.

The receptionist answered.

“Dr. Patel's office.”

“Hi. I need to ask something.”

“Of course.”

“Has my husband contacted the doctor recently?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“How recently?”

“Yesterday.”

My heart sank.

“What did he ask?”

“I can't discuss private information.”

“I am the patient.”

Another pause.

Then she said quietly:

“He asked whether you've missed any prenatal appointments.”

I sat down.

I had never missed one.

Not once.

Why would he ask?

Then I remembered Julia's warning.

He was building a case.

But the question was worse.

Why involve my doctor?

I called Julia again.

“Can he use pregnancy complications against me?”

“If he has evidence of medical instability, possibly.”

“I don't have any instability.”

“Then stay calm.”

I looked toward the nursery door.

“I think they're planning something.”

Julia was silent.

“What happened?”

I told her.

When I finished, she said:

“Get the children out of that house.”

I swallowed.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

Before I could answer, the front door slammed downstairs.

Ryan.

I heard his voice.

“Claire?”

I walked toward the staircase.

Then I saw him.

He stood at the bottom.

Holding a police officer's hand.

The officer looked up.

“Mrs. Miller?”

“Yes.”

“We need to talk.”

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