Part 2: The Sixty-Second Betrayal
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She whispered words that still haunt me to this day:
“The baby… something is wrong. Call an ambulance.”
Her voice was barely a rasp, a fragile thread of sound that severed the ugly knot of suspicion in my chest. The toxic jealousy that had paralyzed me for sixty agonizing seconds evaporated, replaced instantly by a wave of cold, suffocating terror. I dropped to my knees beside the bed, completely ignoring the sharp crunch of glass beneath my shoes. I reached out, my hands trembling violently as I touched her shoulder. Her skin was ice-cold, yet drenched in a thick layer of perspiration.
“I’m here,” I choked out, my voice cracking. “I’m right here. I’m calling them now.”
With fumbling, sweaty fingers, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed emergency services. As the operator’s voice came through the speaker, I forced myself to give our address, my eyes locked on my wife’s face. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, her eyelids fluttering, her lips turning a terrifying shade of blue. She gripped my hand with surprising, desperate strength, her nails digging into my palm just as mine had dug into my own skin moments before.
“They’re on their way,” I told her, hanging up the phone and throwing it onto the mattress. “Just hang on. Please, sweetheart, just hold on.”
The Clues Unraveled
As I waited for the sirens to break the eerie silence of our apartment, the chaotic puzzle of the bedroom finally began to make sense, stripping away the dark fabrications of my insecure mind. I looked at her backward silk nightgown. It wasn’t the result of a rushed, guilty encounter with another man.
