“Hannah, you know I need more information before agreeing to something this serious.”
Dr. Mercer stepped closer. “This is not optional.”
“It is when I’m the husband,” Caleb said.
A monitor beeped faster behind Hannah’s head.
The nurse, Denise, leaned toward the doctor and whispered, “Fetal heart rate on Baby B is dropping.”
Hannah heard it.
Her eyes moved to the ceiling.
One tear slipped down her temple into her hair, but her mouth stayed firm.
She had learned long ago that crying in front of Caleb only gave him something to study.
She had learned that panic made him feel powerful.
So she counted.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
She had been counting all morning.
At 6:14 a.m., Caleb had found her in the kitchen gripping the counter, blood running down her leg.
At 6:16, he had told her to clean herself up because the housekeeper arrived on Thursdays.
At 6:22, he had finally called 911, but only after Hannah had dialed the first two numbers herself and slid the phone across the marble island.
At 6:49, the ambulance had pulled into St. Ambrose.
At 7:03, Caleb had asked the admitting nurse whether private rooms were billed separately.
At 7:08, Dr. Mercer had said the word surgery.
At 7:09, Caleb Whitmore had started bargaining with his wife’s life.
Now the clock above the nurses’ station read 7:12.
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