Page 9 of Filthy Lies

“The baby is in distress,” he says finally, looking up at the blonde woman. “Heart rate is dropping. We need to get her to a hospital immediately.”

“Not possible,” the blonde replies coldly.

“Then the baby might die!” he exclaims in an unexpected burst of emotion. “And possibly the mother, too. The cord is compressed.”

Die.

The word echoes in the hollow chamber of my skull like a bullet ricocheting inside a metal box. Again and again and again.

Die. Die. Die.

My baby—this stubborn, fierce little creature who has survived my broken heart, my shattered trust, gunfire, betrayal, and now labor in this filthy hellhole—mightdie.

And suddenly, I’m not scared anymore.

I’m fuckinghomicidal.

A primal rage ignites in my blood, transforming the pain of contractions into something else entirely. It’s like someone has replaced my veins with gasoline and tossed in a match. The burning spreads from my center outward until even my fingertips tingle with it.

My child will not die here.

I will rip this building apart with my bare hands before I let that happen.

“Get. Me. Help.” I clutch her wrist hard. “Or I swear to God, when my husband finds us—and he will—you’ll wish he’d killed you quickly.”

The blonde woman’s face contorts with contempt. But she still says nothing. So I turn to the doctor.

“Do something,” I plead, grabbing his hand. “Save my baby. Please.”

The doctor hesitates, then nods firmly. “I’ll try. But you must do exactly as I say.” He turns to the woman. “I need clean towels, hot water, and better light. Now!”

She looks like she might argue, but another man appears in the doorway and barks an order. She leaves quickly.

“Listen to me,” the doctor says quietly once we’re alone. “This is very dangerous. I will do what I can, but…”

“I understand,” I whisper. “Just save my baby. That’s all that matters.”

He looks at me with something that I can almost mistake for respect. “You are very brave.”

I’m not brave; I’m terrified. But in this moment, a strange calm settles over me.

If I die bringing this child into the world, then that’s what happens. Vince will find our baby. He’ll raise that baby with all the love and protection in the world. He’ll tell stories about me, about how much I loved them both.

The thought brings an unexpected peace.

“Vince will find us,” I tell the doctor. “My husband. When he does, tell him I wasn’t afraid.”

The doctor’s eyes widen, but he nods.

The woman returns with supplies. The contractions are unrelenting now, my body working with unstoppable force, previously unused gears within me grinding and groaning as they’re called into action.

“I need to push,” I croak.

“Not yet,” the doctor warns. “The cord?—”

But my body doesn’t care about his warnings. The urge is there, biological and undeniable. I bear down with all my strength.

The doctor moves quickly between my legs, his hands sure despite his fear. “Okay, now, I need you to pant. Short breaths. Don’t push!”

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