Chapter 2 - Daniel Had Prepared for ThisMichael Grant didn't ask me to explain everything.
I was eight months pregnant.
And the woman laughing behind him was twenty-four years old.
His wife.
My stepmother.
The first contraction hit while my knees were still scraping across the wet porch.
But before I tell you what happened after my water broke, you need to understand why my father thought he could do this to me.
My name is Emily Carter.
Until twenty-three days earlier, I had been Emily Carter, wife of Daniel Carter, expecting mother of twin girls, and co-owner of a modest two-story house on a quiet street outside Columbus, Ohio.
Then Daniel died.
One moment he was driving home from a construction site.
The next, a state trooper was standing beneath my porch light asking if he could come inside.
Daniel was thirty-seven.
I was thirty-four.
We had spent six years building a life together.
He wasn't a billionaire.
He wasn't secretly famous.
He was simply the kind of man who packed my lunch when I forgot, kissed my stomach before leaving for work, and took pictures of every ridiculous nursery decoration because he said our daughters would someday want proof of how obsessed we had been with them.
After his funeral, I stopped functioning like a normal person.
I slept in Daniel's shirts.
I left his coffee mug beside the sink.
Sometimes I caught myself turning toward the front door at six because that was when he usually came home.
My father, Richard Hale, interpreted my grief differently.
He saw weakness.
Richard had been mostly absent from my adult life until Daniel died.
Then suddenly he was calling every day.
“Have you looked at Daniel's finances?”
“Do you know what debts he left?”
“Maybe you should let me handle the estate.”
I refused.
Daniel had been careful.
Our attorney, Michael Grant, had already explained everything.
Daniel had bought the house before we married, but two years into our marriage he'd added me to the deed with rights of survivorship.
The mortgage had been paid off eighteen months earlier.
The house was mine.
Daniel also had life insurance.
Savings.
A retirement account.
Nothing extravagant, but enough that I wouldn't have to panic while raising our daughters.
I didn't tell my father the details.
That turned out to be important.
At 9:12 on a gray Tuesday morning, someone unlocked my front door.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with one hand beneath my stomach when Richard walked in.
Behind him came Kelsey Hale, his new wife.
Twenty-four.
Perfect hair.
Perfect nails.
A cream sweater that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill.
Kelsey looked around my kitchen like she was inspecting a rental property.
Richard didn't even say hello.
“You need to pack.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“This house needs to be dealt with.”
I slowly stood.
“It's being dealt with.”
“No.” He tossed a folder onto my table. “Daniel owned this property before your marriage. His assets have to go through probate. Until then, I'm taking control.”
I actually thought grief had damaged my hearing.
“You're taking control?”
“You're not capable of handling things right now.”
Kelsey smiled.
Not kindly.
“You're emotional, Emily. That's understandable.”
I looked at her.
“You have five seconds to get out of my house.”
Her smile vanished.
Richard's face darkened.
“Don't speak to my wife like that.”
“Then don't bring your wife into my home to steal it.”
He stepped toward me.
“You've always been dramatic.”
That word.
Always.
The same word he'd used when I cried after my mother left.
When I couldn't afford college and asked him for help.
When he skipped my wedding because he'd decided Daniel wasn't “successful enough.”
I pulled out my phone.
“I'm calling the police.”
Richard grabbed my wrist.
Pain shot up my arm.
“Let go of me.”
“You are not humiliating me.”
“Dad—”
He ripped the phone away.
Kelsey picked up my purse from the counter.
“We packed some things for you.”
I stared at her.
She had already gone upstairs.
Already entered my bedroom.
Already touched Daniel's things.
Something inside me snapped.
“Get out!”
I lunged for my purse.
Richard caught my shoulder.
I twisted away.
Then his fingers tangled in my hair.
The pain was instant.
Sharp.
Violent.
He pulled.
I screamed.
“Richard!” Kelsey gasped.
But she wasn't trying to stop him.
She was smiling.
He dragged me across the kitchen.
My hip struck a chair.
“Stop!”
“You need to learn some respect!”
“I'm pregnant!”
“I know exactly what you are!”
My shoes slid against the hardwood.
He hauled me through the doorway.
I grabbed the frame.
My fingernails bent backward.
Then I lost my grip.
I hit the porch on both knees.
My stomach tightened violently.
A deep pressure rolled through my pelvis.
I sucked in a breath.
Richard released my hair.
“There,” he said. “Now calm down.”
Kelsey stepped outside and dropped my purse beside me.
Then warmth suddenly flooded between my legs.
It soaked through my pants.
Spread across the porch boards.
For one terrible second, nobody moved.
I looked down.
My water had broken.
“Oh God.”
My hands flew to my stomach.
Kelsey looked at the spreading puddle.
And laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Well,” she said, covering her mouth. “I guess the drama worked.”
Richard muttered, “Emily, don't start.”
My vision sharpened.
Something in me became unbelievably calm.
My phone lay near the doorway where Richard had dropped it.
I crawled toward it.
He didn't stop me.
Maybe because he assumed I was calling an ambulance.
I wasn't.
I dialed the only person Daniel had once told me to call if anything ever happened and I felt unsafe.
The line connected.
“Emily?”
I looked directly at my father.
Then at Kelsey.
And spoke six words.
“Michael, activate Daniel's emergency instructions.”
There was silence.
Then our attorney said:
May you like
“Tell me where you are.”
And forty minutes later, my father discovered that throwing me out of that house had just cost him everything.
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